


Eat Our Hearts Alive

by lotuskasumi



Category: Doctor Who, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover Pairings, Drama & Romance, F/M, May/December Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 116,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotuskasumi/pseuds/lotuskasumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it." -- Caitlyn Siehl.</p><p>Back by request. The ups and downs, ins and outs, and unchanging force that brings Malcolm Tucker, the Dark Lord of Downing Street, into the life and heart of the Impossible Girl, Clara Oswald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again, folks. I noticed several people were interested in reading this again, so I decided to repost the fic after rewriting and editing some parts, not to mention putting it in chronological order.
> 
> To those new to the fic: Each chapter is like a short story, taken from different scenes in Clara and Malcolm's relationship. How they met, when they moved in, the first night they spent together, etc.
> 
> The fic doesn't take place in Doctor Who's canon timeline. It's a Clara Oswald who has never met the Doctor, has never had adventures, nor seen the wonders of time and space. As such, it's a Clara Oswald who feels suffocated and subdued by her life on earth but with no way to escape from it, apart from giving into her temper now and then. I always headcanon'd that Clara had an anxiety disorder, which accounts for a lot of her stressful control issues, so I'll be applying that headcanon here.
> 
> Please forgive any errors with regards to British English spellings. I doublecheck them, but there's bound to be a few mistakes that slip through.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**Chapter One**

 

Clara slammed the phone into its cradle. It tumbled out of its plastic sheath and clattered to the floor at her feet. She waited until the count of ten before she crouched down, swept her hair from her eyes and the tears from her cheek, and picked the phone back up. once it was back in its place, she shut her eyes again, and reduced the ten count to five.

"That's it," she said with a huff, holding up her hands in surrender. "That's it. I'm getting out. I’m going. Leaving." She paused, counted down from seven, and let out the breath locked inside in her chest. “And then I’ll come back once I’m done shopping.”

Clara’s shoulders sagged, and though the edges of her temper dulled to a spark, the core of it ran deep. All she could do was push it down, keep counting and holding her breath, and wait. It was the only way Clara knew how to put on her mask without fail. It worked every time.

Trying not to gnash her teeth into little pearly stubs, Clara threw on her coat, snatched up her wallet and keys, and stormed out of her flat. She pulled the door shut with a loud snap, and did up the locks in an angry twist. She shot past the lift and made for the stairs at a rapid pace, her footsteps echoing up the empty stairwell.

God help her if she ran into any of her neighbours now. She did not have the energy to play the nice little schoolteacher they all assumed she was—and indeed, usually Clara had no problem keeping that particular mask in place. Except for tonight.

All it took was one phone call, and all of Clara’s carefully composed control came toppling down like a house of cards. Just the sound of her stepmother’s voice made Clara’s patience reach the end of its tether, as usual, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst were the tears, the crushing sense of failure and fury. This particular lethal trio gripped her heart like a hook. It pulled and tore at her, not just to wound but to mar, to scar. The usual post-family depression.

Clara felt as if everyone she passed on the street simply must know how furious she was, and were just pretending to be ignorant of it. How could they not know? How could they pass by, totally unaware of how broken she felt, and how hard it was just to keep her face free of both anger and tears? She didn’t want the attention, and she didn’t want pity—she just couldn't understand how something that overwhelmed her so completely could go unnoticed by people within arm's reach of her.

 _Why can't they see? Why can't they just know?_ she thought, and not for the first time in her life either. _Why do all the worst things have to be said?_

But these were all dead end thoughts. Clara knew they would lead nowhere and help with nothing, just as she knew she ought to shelve her temper, and cast aside all lingering frustrations if she ever wanted to get a good night's rest later on.

 _Slim chance of that._ Clara chuckled to herself, weighing her keys in the pocket of her coat and shuddering against the strong burst of wind that whipped around the corner. _It doesn’t matter that it’s a Sunday. There's no way I'm heading to bed early tonight. I'll be up for hours stewing over this one._

It always took Clara a few days to recover from these moods. Usually she avoided talking to her family unless it was absolutely necessary—holiday greetings, birthdays, and the unpleasant formalities of anniversaries were the only times she let herself bridge the gap of silence between herself, her father, and Linda. And really, she should have prepared herself for this one. It’s not like the call was a complete surprise. Christmas was only a few days away.

Clara scowled as she strode into Tesco Express, and snatched up a basket from the nearly empty rack. Trying her best not to think of her step-mother, Clara dodged carefully around a cluster of shoppers shouting over canned spices and tangerines. They were out in full force this year, dressed in ugly sweaters, Santa hats, and festive light necklaces that clicked like talons when the person wearing them lurched possessively over their food. Clara would find all of this viciously funny if she didn't have to put herself at risk just to get another box of breakfast tea (simple, predictable, but so sorely needed), to say nothing of the battle that would break out when she headed back to the dairy case. Luckily the stars smiled on her efforts; Clara found not one but two boxes of the beloved breakfast blend to take home, along with a box of loose leaf peppermint tea. That would be nice on Christmas morning.

It was with a bolstered heart and slightly more elevated spirits that Clara crept towards the dairy case, falling into step behind a tall man in a long, black woollen trench coat. Clara took a breath to calm herself, pushing her hair over her shoulder and out of her eyes.

 _See? You're calming down already. Not that you were even trying to calm down—although he certainly should_ , she cut in, pulling a face as she stared at the back of the man in front of her. He was standing rigid and ramrod straight, his neck tense, and his shoulders locked in as if a metal vise were clamped around the thin skin.

Clara’s heart went out to this stranger. Anyone shopping in a madhouse like this with their patience worn past its limit was a friend, as far as she was concerned. And if she actually were friends with the man, she might give him a pat on the back and a little nod of encouragement. But there was nothing Clara could do except gaze at his back in sympathy.

It didn’t last long, though. Clara stepped up to the dairy case once the line had cleared, and looked through what was left of the milk. There were only three containers left. Glass containers at that, thin and short and probably skim, to add insult to the injury. The stars might have smiled on Clara's efforts for the tea, but that was as far as the universe’s kindness went, apparently.

Clara had just picked up one of the bottles and turned to her left at the exact same time as the man she had been following made his turn to his right. The two of them knocked into each other hard enough to drop the bottles. Down they crashed, splattering shards of milk-coated glass across Clara's boots and stockings. The man’s shoes and the cuffs of his trousers were likewise soaked.

People turned to stare at the sound, their eyes open wide. Within seconds, grocery store workers came over to usher Clara and the grim-faced man away from the wreckage. Caution signs were put up, and a mop was slapped onto the floor by a gloomy looking, string-thin boy. Slowly, with curious eyes that cut like knives, the nearby shoppers returned to their routines. And still Clara and the man had not shared a single word.

They now stared at each other. Clara had to lift her head up further than she expected to get a good look at the man. He was clearly older than her, though it wasn’t easy to place his age. Mid-forties, perhaps. Clara thought she saw a bit of grey in his dark brown hair, a pale tinge that suggested grey wouldn't be far along perhaps in another year or so.

 _Stressed, old, and tired_ , she thought, taking the man in. When was the last time he slept in a bed? He looked like he slept over a desk for the past three days.

Whoever he was, Clara couldn't help but continue staring. Not just because she felt ashamed for knocking into him, but because of his eyes. They were bright eyes, almost blue, but then shades of green and storm-cloud grey seemed to creep in, and then Clara didn't know what to make of him. She thought of words like changeable, mutable, unpredictable. It was bizarrely appealing, despite how forbidding he seemed.

Before Clara knew it, she was laughing. It wasn't a happy laugh. A note of hysteria rang through each chuckle, and though she tried to clamp her hand over her mouth and keep the laughter inside, Clara knew she was bound to fail. The stress from being overworked, ill-used, and forced to endure yet another round of abuse masquerading as advice from Linda's puckered, thin-lipped mouth had left Clara incapable of her usual control. And so she stood there, laughing herself hoarse in front of a man twice her age whose eyes were like little storm clouds fixed into his face.

At last, Clara managed to say, "You know, I really did need that milk."

"As did I," the man said. She noted his accent ( _Scottish! Quite far from home, this one_ ) and the tone in which he spoke. Tense, terse, and a little amused. This didn't stop her from laughing, but it did get her to take a breath, stand up straight, and focus more on composure than destruction.

_No use breaking down over spilled milk._

"I'm sorry," Clara said, and she meant it, even if she were still fighting back hysterics. "I didn't see you there. It was an accident." She offered a smile along with the apology.

To her tremendous surprise it worked. The man moved his gaze back and forth over Clara's smile, taking in the dimple she knew past girl friends–and girlfriends–had envied her for. Linda always said ruined it every family picture. _"It's like you've got a scar cutting up half your cheek, dear. It's awful–try turning to hide it next time, will you?"_

 _No, shut up,_ Clara told the nagging little Linda that seemed to thrive inside her mind. She was like a cancer that needed immediate excision, but whose traces could linger on far longer than the initial exposure. And then the man was talking, and Clara had no reason to listen to the angry thoughts in her head anymore.

"Well, I can't expect you'd be able to see much from down there," the man said, gesturing to her stature with a large, open hand.

Clara scowled up at him. She’d heard that one before.

He quickly added, "So how important was that bottle to you? You're a bit– " he cut himself off.

"You were going to say 'broken up about it,' weren't you?"

It was the man's turn to frown.

The boy who had been mopping up the milk had since moved on to sweeping away the glass. He handed Clara and the man two complementary wet naps. Clara and the man accepted the help with smiles and thanks. They set about cleaning their shoes, taking turns leaning on the wall next to the dairy case for balance.

"Any particular reason why a bottle could be so dire?” the man asked, not looking at her.

Clara shrugged. “I needed that milk for a soufflé to take the edge off,” she said, picking at the ends of her nylons to unstick them. She sighed, well aware of the puddle of milk that had gathered in her boot. "I guess you might call me a stress baker."

"A stress baker?" the man echoed, scrubbing at the end of one leg to another, cursing beneath his breath. Clara's lips tightened at some of the phrases, but she otherwise kept her comments to herself. "What, are your parents a passive aggressive butcher and a post-traumatic candle-stick maker?"

Clara blinked, setting both feet down on the floor. She folded up the wet nap in her hand. "No," she said, staring up at the man. "Was that another joke?"

The man glowered at her, clearly wondering if _that_ was a joke. Clara's smirk gave her away, and he had no choice but to fight his own grin in return.

"You must be fun at parties," he teased, half snorting as he said it.

This struck a nerve. "Don't go to parties much," she said, shaking her head in tense little twists that swung her hair around her face. "Not my thing, really—which, even if it were my thing, I _still_ wouldn't go because hey, it's just Christmas dinner. That's nothing special. It's not like it's a tradition to get together with the family every holiday. There's no bloody need for me to put in an appearance where I'm obviously not wanted, yeah?"

It was as if Clara's mouth acted outside of her will. The repeat of her conversation with Linda came out in a harsh rush.

The man stared at her, saying nothing. She closed her eyes and took another long breath. Clara could feel the man's eyes on her, like a hand pushing and prodding at the mask she was trying so desperately to put back into place.

When she looked at him again, Clara was relieved to see traces of sympathy on his long, pale face. It was as if he'd seen a wound she'd been trying to hide and instead of being viciously curious about the mark, he felt only pity for its presence.

And then his own mask slid into place, his expression smoothing out into an empty expression that even Clara couldn’t mistake as genuine.

"I'm sorry," she said again, trying to laugh and managing a sort of lopsided smile. "I’m dumping quite a bit on you tonight, aren’t I? First milk, then miseries.”

"It happens," the man said, his voice softer than it had been earlier. “It’s the holidays. They’re not always festive.”

"I'm sorry." _Third time's the charm._ "I'll just... I'll be going, yeah? There's one more bottle in the case, and if you don't mind I think I'd best be leaving with it. Then we can be on our happy way."

"What, us?"

"No, me and the bottle," Clara said, before she realized that once again, he was joking. Her smile was immediate—this, at least, was genuine.

If the man was amused by this, Clara didn't give herself time to see it. She turned away and walked back to the case, treading lightly on the newly mopped floor. A woman with short blonde hair, a sour face, and ice blue eyes darted in front of her at the last second and snatched up the last bottle on the shelf. She lowered it into her cart with deliberate care, where Clara could clearly see another bottle of milk had been placed.

Something inside of Clara snapped. Like a little twig that endured the cold bite of winter only to break under the first warm spell of the season, Clara reached out without realising what she was doing, and gave the older woman a sharp tap on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," Clara said in her best angry teacher voice. The woman turned to look at her. She was vaguely familiar, but Clara couldn’t quite place her just yet. "Yeah, hello. I was going for that bottle." She pointed at it.

"Were you?" the woman said, looking Clara up and down.

Clara knew that look. Linda had mastered the art of disdainful glares, and it was clear that this woman was no dab hand at them as well.

"Yes, I was actually," Clara repeated, matching the woman's temper. There was something so familiar about her face and voice. It brought Clara back to her temping job days, where she'd made friends with a brash, bold red-haired woman named Donna Noble. They had bonded quickly over the state of the relationships they had with their mothers, and Clara remembered hearing Donna's mother's voice on the phone quite frequently.

_This woman's just like I imagined her to be based on that voice. Sour and cross and puckered, like a lemon in a wig._

The man in the black coat approached until he was standing just a hand's length away from Clara. She ignored this. "Since you've already got a bottle, would it be all right if I just take that other one back?"

It was phrased as a question, but there was nothing in Clara's face or tone that suggested it was something the woman should refuse.

But refuse she did. "Hmm, no," the woman said, looking down the length of her nose at Clara. "No, I'll be needing them both."

"For what?" Clara demanded, knowing it was a pointless argument to have. She couldn't believe this was happening. _I'm actually getting into a row over a bloody bottle of milk. I thought I was better than this._ But it wasn't just the bottle that was the problem here, it was the principle of the thing.

"For my cats," the woman said, after a deliberately thoughtful pause.

Clara opened her mouth to reply, which was when the man in the black coat stepped in, holding up his hands as if to push back on the older woman's argument. "Look—hi, yes, couldn't help but overhear the little tiff. Pretty sure the drunk Father Christmas out front ringing the bell could hear it, too. You've got a lovely voice, you know. Like a dental drill. It bores in."

The older woman flinched as if she'd been struck. Clara chewed on her lip, trying not to laugh.

"Just give the girl the bottle, and let the kitties binge from the tap for a night, yeah? They’ll thank you for it. And your carpets will, too," the older man said.

The older woman glared as if he'd told her to do something horribly rude. "Excuse me, but who are you? Who even asked you to speak?"

 _Oh, she is so Donna’s mum_ , Clara thought.

"A man who knows you don't give fucking dairy products to a cat unless you were hoping to have another stain on the furniture for the holidays," the man said, each word laid out with effortless grace. Even Clara couldn't help but be impressed at his temper. He controlled it so well, it was almost an art.

The old woman wasn’t impressed. "If you'll excuse me, I have groceries to pay for. Happy Christmas."

“Happy nothing, you miserable cow!” Clara hissed at her. “And tell Donna I said I’m sorry she’s got you for the holiday!”

 _It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year_ kicked in from the speakers overhead. Clara held her hand to her forehead and took another long breath, tapping her fingers against her scalp. She turned, surprised to see that the man in the long dark coat was still standing next to her. He was staring down at her with a curious expression, like he was trying not to smile.

"A friend of yours?” he asked, dragging his fingers over his mouth. It was as if he were wiping the smile away.

Clara forced herself to look him in the eye, wondering if she was going to get a crick in her neck for the effort. He was so tall. "Sometimes I lose my temper and just… sort of… say things," she trailed off, jumbling her hands in the air in a wild tangle.

"Things you wouldn’t otherwise mention unless you were holding onto your patience by a shrivelled strand of bollock skin?" the man offered.

"Yes–well, no. No, not exactly," Clara said, frowning. "Not the bollock part, anyway. Are you always this vulgar?"

"Do you usually confront hatchet-faced matrons over baking ingredients?" he fired back, smiling again.

"No, you just caught me on a bad day."

The man studied Clara in silence. She took the time to observe him as well, surprised at how easy it was for them to resume their effortless banter. He didn’t seem to mind any of that—in fact, if Clara didn’t know better, she could have sworn he was impressed.

Clara liked it when a man didn't shrink from her temper, or try to make light of her anger. She wasn’t used to it. It was frustratingly exhausting having to explain why it was all right to be angry in the first place, only to hear back awful questions about her time of the month or medication. Neither of which were anyone’s business but Clara’s own, thank you very much. But this man's reaction to Clara's anger had been nothing short of full-on acceptance, even joy. Whatever his reasons, Clara appreciated his endorsement.

_Too bad I’ve no idea how to put that particular bit of gratitude into words._

Gazing into each other's eyes and listening to the final bars of the Christmas song come to a close, Clara found herself mirroring the small, tender smile on the man’s face. The lines around his mouth creased his face, but there was something handsome about him all the same. He had a striking face, with so much life and vigor behind every shift of his expression.

"Listen," the man said, clearing his throat and scratching at his cheek. Idle gestures and movements, little ways to distract from the words that came next. "How about I, er... How about I pay for that?" he asked, pointing at the boxes of tea inside Clara’s basket.

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" Clara asked, grinning. And then it happened again. Her mouth took off without her will, spilling out words that were better left locked inside her heart. "Because if that's the case, then how about you buy me dinner instead?"

"Dinner?" the man echoed, blinking. "Are you asking me to take you out on a date?"

Clara shrugged, pretending it didn't mean much. On the inside she was screaming with mad, wild happiness. "Sure, why not. Let's call it a date. I'm free most weekday evenings, but weekends are your best bet for my full attention."

"Right, yeah—what?" the man said, catching himself. Clara almost felt sorry for him, but it was so worth seeing his eyes dart around in a curious dance, looking for the crack in the seam, or else searching for the lie. He wouldn't find any. Clara had never been more serious.

She dug into her pockets, pulling out little scraps of paper and receipts. The man handed her a pen from his own pocket, still staring wide-eyed as she jotted down her number and handed it and the pen to him with a grin.

"See you soon?" she offered, taking a step back.

The man peered down at the number–and then shook his head. "No, this won't work," he said.

Clara froze.

"I don't even know your name, do I?" he added, holding out the pen again. “Forgot to add that bit in.”

Clara hoped she wasn’t blushing as she took the pen back, accidentally brushing her fingers against his own. "There you go," she said, passing the pen back and holding out her hand for him to shake. She wanted to touch him just once. "It’s Clara, by the way."

"Malcolm," he said, shaking her hand. His hand nearly swallowed up Clara's own. Short bones met long ones in a tender, warm grip. "Hello, Clara."

"Hi, Malcolm," she muttered. He really was charming, with his warm voice, long hands, and lovely eyes. Oh no. Clara nodded slowly, still holding on to his hand. "Well this has been sufficiently awkward," she said. "Definitely one of my worst hellos."

Malcolm didn't let go of her hand. They gazed at each other again, lapsing into a comfortable, deeper silence just as _I'll Be Home for Christmas_ started to play. Bing Crosby's voice crooned in the background as Malcolm spoke up again. "Well, we'll just have to try again on Thursday. Might be a bit busy this weekend, you see. What with it being Christmas."

Clara took back her hand and laughed, grateful when Malcolm joined in. She hitched the handles of the basket up on her arm until it was resting in the bend of her elbow. "Thursday it is. Keep me posted on the place and time and I'll be there."

"Yes, ma'am," Malcolm said.

Clara liked the sound of that. "Best be off," she said, taking a step back, thankfully not bumping into any other shoppers. "Nice meeting you, Malcolm."

He returned her nod with it a brief smile. "It's been interesting, Clara."

Clara turned around. Only then did she squeeze her eyes shut, and let her face break through the careful mask into an expression of anxious dread. What a nightmare.

She paid for the tea and trudged back to her flat, her heart sinking down past the heel of her boots. Clara felt it trailing behind her, wearing itself out into a hopeless lump that she would have to pick up and stuff back in again. At least now she had tea to soothe this ache. 

To her tremendous surprise, Malcolm called a day later. Clara couldn’t help but smile. She had never been happier to be so wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The courtship phase of Clara and Malcolm's relationship, including love letters, the dance of secrets, and blind, all-consuming comforts.

**Chapter Two**

 

The first love letter Clara ever received in her life came into her possession more or less by complete accident. It wasn’t exactly a letter, strictly speaking, but real emotion had gone into its creation, and she would enjoy it nonetheless.

Clara found the letter on her first time having dinner at Malcolm's house, on what was technically their fourth date. The first three took place in the shadowed comforts of the darkest corners of restaurants. It had been Malcolm's suggestion that they try for a night in rather than out, and Clara had been so startled by this suggestion that she dropped her glass of wine into her lap, staining it with a bruise-dark blotch that refused all attempts to blot it up.

"It's fine, really," Clara kept insisting, red-faced and awkwardly laughing as she pressed both her cloth napkins into her lap, all the while cursing madly inside her head. "No, really, I think it's almost out now."

Malcolm leaned forward from his side of the table to take a peek. His curious expression dropped quickly. "Look, I'll pay to have that cleaned, yeah?"

"You don't have to," Clara said at once, shaking her head.

"I know I don't have to," he argued back. "I'm very well aware of what I don't have to do, just as I'm aware of what I want to do."

Clara folded her hands in her lap, chewed on the inside of her cheek as the wine seeped down into her nylons, and considered him carefully. "Just this once, okay?" she said after a long pause.

“What, us staying in or the dry cleaning bill?”

“Just the second one. Hopefully.”

Clara arrived at his house later that week with dry cleaning bill in hand, as well as a nice bottle of wine she had been saving, and her best smile. After Malcolm stepped out of the room and run upstairs to answer a call, Clara had peered around the room, looking for something to hold her attention so she could ignore the clamour upstairs.

Just as she heard Malcolm bark out some kind of strangled demand (“For fuck’s sake, missy—”), Clara came across a scrap of paper left out on the kitchen counter, and she hurried over to it, eager to read any little thing instead of eavesdropping. It was half buried by a spiral-bound daily planner, as if Malcolm had been looking at it recently, and shuffled a few things to keep it out of sight, clearly lacking the heart to just chuck it in the bin.

Her name was written across the top, making Clara stop dead.

Now, it wasn't as if Clara were snooping. She knew she was allowed to be in the kitchen; it wasn't as if she couldn't help but be in there, since it blended seamlessly with the front room where they were eating and the living room in the back. And Clara wouldn't have had a chance to look at the letter at all if it weren't for Malcolm leaving so abruptly in the middle of their conversation to take a call that was now stretching on into fifteen minutes. He had been a marvellously gracious host for most of the evening, with only the call to disrupt that kindness. Only then did a look of guilt creep into Malcolm's face, one Clara didn't know how to place.

_Just a peek, go on. It couldn't hurt._

Clara listened for the sound of Malcolm's return and caught only snippets of a muffled conversation. It didn't sound pleasant. Garbled rage about the “enormity of shit” being forced into his ear, as well as the hard pacing footfalls bearing up and down the room overhead, suggested Malcolm wouldn't be back any time soon.

Best read it now and read it fast. Pressing her fingers against the end of the note, Clara tugged as gently as she could to free it. And what she found didn't disappoint. It was a list.

  * Curry? Can't pass off as home-made. Too strong a smell.

  * No pizza, have some fucking dignity.

  * Chinese? Not terrible. Not hating that. May still be hungry. Still not passable.

  * Soup… is for fucking orphan asylums. No.

  * Broiled salmon with… what? Something. !




  
Hurriedly scrawled in at the bottom in a sloppy, slanted hand were a few more lines that made Clara's chest feel ten times too small for the heart inside. _Back-up meal required in case of allergy. Or if she doesn't want to risk mercury poisoning._

 And beneath that was the even more sloppily written: _Nix that. All set. Thank fuck._

Clara hid a smile behind her hand. It was far from romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but the note was definite evidence that she hadn't been the only one to panic about this date. There was also something strangely sweet about a man who talked to himself in a note, crafting a stream of running commentary as he fussed over what to make for dinner. It showed a totally different side to the man Clara had been chatting pleasantly with all evening.

Ever since she set foot through the door, Malcolm's charm had been present in its full, endearing force. He cracked jokes and kept Clara vastly entertained by his own stories with the thrilling precision of a gifted storyteller. He was also a rapt listener, knowing exactly how long to hold his questions, when to prod a silence for more information, or when to leave an awkward stumble ignored, as if Clara had accidentally bared a wound she would rather they both forget.

Though it was strange to call a man like Malcolm sensitive, Clara meant it in the sense that he was attuned to the changes in thoughts and moods of others, and acted upon it accordingly. To say this thrilled her would be an understatement: Clara had never been more relieved, or more terrified. Wasn’t this exactly what she had been aching for?

But Clara hadn't been entirely swept off her feet—no, she was smarter than that. And however much Malcolm liked to talk, he talked so little about himself as to put Clara on her guard. As early as their first date, Clara noticed how gently Malcolm avoided revealing too much about himself, giving such detailed but shallow answers as to make Clara feel she had been given a wealth of information, only to realize, upon reflection, that Malcolm had hardly said anything at all.

Clara wouldn't begrudge a person for wanting to keep their secrets—she was, after all, aware of her own problems in this regard—but she couldn’t pretend to enjoy this. He asks far too much about me and gives even less in return.

This note, however, was now crucial evidence that something lurked beneath Malcolm's confidence, and that it was something similar to Clara's own experiences with anxiety and all its poisonous unease. She couldn't help but be drawn to that. What's more, it gave her an idea.

Eventually Malcolm came back downstairs and continued their dinner, resuming the conversation as if a half hour shouting match on the phone had not interrupted it. Clara said nothing of the absence, and made sure to be the perfect picture of politeness for the rest of the evening. She only put on her mask and started her act when it was time to leave.

Clara turned back from the door with a small sigh, snapping her fingers as if she were trying to jog her memory. "I forgot something," she lied, and she did it well, with a smile to boot. "It's in the kitchen near the sink. Mind just getting it for me?"

"My kitchen?" Malcolm asked, his face was as blank as his tone.

"Yes, your kitchen," she said. Clara made a little bracket with her two pointer fingers, spacing them about five inches apart as she traced in the air. "Little sheet of yellow lined paper, about this big, got my name written right on top. Can't miss it."

It took Malcolm a moment to realise what she meant. His mouth opened in a little wordless shape of—what? Surprise? Dismay? Clara couldn’t say. Still, Clara enjoyed watching the penny drop. Her smile became a grin, wickedly pleased.

He continued to stare at her, and it was in the silence that guilt finally crept into Clara’s heart. "Don't be cross with me, please," she said, "I was off getting the wine glasses while you were on the phone, and I saw it there on the counter.” She paused, knowing she was lying a little. But she had a hunch that Malcolm had told his fair share of lies this night, starting and ending with whoever was on the phone.

“And I only took a little peek,” Clara added, as if that would make things better.

Still Malcolm said nothing. After a moment he turned away, disappearing into the kitchen with three long strides. He returned before Clara's panic could set in, with the note in his hand, and he was scowling at it as he read the list over again.

"We'll call it a fair trade, right?" Malcolm said, handing Clara the list. He didn’t let go, not even when her fingers had closed around it. "I've got your dry cleaning bill, and you are now the proud owner of the only living proof of a Tucker Tit Moment."

Clara laughed, sputtering wordlessly. "What?" she managed to say, just as Malcolm let go of the note.

He smiled. "You heard. Now keep that close. Don't let anyone see it. I'll know just who to call up if that gets round to the press."

"Is that the only way I'll hear from you again?" Clara asked, folding the note into careful little squares as she tucked it into her purse. "If I leak something to the press?"

Malcolm fell silent again, and Clara looked up, her smile in place. She had trouble understanding the look on Malcolm's face. It seemed like a muscle had stretched too far and then snapped back in an odd twitch. It made his smile slip away and his gaze turn cold, fierce, forbidding.

"No, you won't have to do that," Malcolm said at length, and it was the warmth of his voice as well as the fire in his gaze that took Clara's smile away. How could anyone stand being so grave and so damned sincere? How could he? "I'd like you not to, in fact."

"Okay…" Clara said, trailing off and taking a cautious little step back. It was as if there were two layers to the conversation and she were coasting by on the shallow surface.

Malcolm reflected. "I meant you won't have to work hard for something I'm… happy to give," he said, his mouth twisting around the words.

It was that little pause that did the most damage. That little pause killed and charmed Clara in equal turns: killed, because it showed he could be hesitant, however fierce and forbidding he might be; charmed, because she did not expect a man so impressive to be anything but the perfect image of confidence.

Clara stepped forward, all but leaping the last few steps as she stood up on the tops of her toes to give Malcolm a short, sweet kiss.

"Same for you," she said as she pulled back, gazing into his eyes. There seemed to be stars in them now, as if Clara had him all in thrall with no more effort than a few words, a press of the lips, and a trembling, eager heart wrapped up in both.

When Malcolm kissed Clara back, holding her face gently between his hands, his touch light and his skin so delightfully warm, Clara knew it was Malcolm's way of paying her back for that little moment of enchantment.

A fair trade, indeed.

 

The second love letter was an actual letter, and this time Malcolm made certain Clara saw it.

Clara had come home from a particularly gruelling day at Coal Hill to find the pale white end of an envelope peeking out from under her front door. Assuming the worst, assuming that Linda had come over to leave one of her, _"Just in the neighbourhood, and I thought of a few more things I didn't like that you said to me at Gran's last week"_ -notes, Clara sighed and forced the key into the locks with unnecessary roughness, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She'd have to see if there was a way to stop Linda from being admitted into the building.

Clara stepped carefully over the letter as she entered her flat. She tilted her head to the side to get a better look at what was written on the front. Her name was on it, along with a scratched collection of Xs, Os, and what could have been a misshapen heart. That startled her.

Definitely not from Linda. She had a stone where that particular organ should be.

Just as Clara picked up the letter, her mobile rang. It was Malcolm.

"Did you get the letter?" he asked.

"It's in my hand right now," Clara said. "I only just got in; haven't taken my coat off yet."

"Oh now that's a familiar sound," he mused, his voice sliding into a softer tone.

"What sound?"

"That sound. That bleak croak in the voice. It only comes out of the mouths of shell-shocked soldiers or bollocked ministers. You hear it around here all the time."

"Bollocked who?" Clara asked, frowning, but she wasn’t put out—if anything, she was all the more curious than before.

 _Does he work with ministers? Is he a journalist?_ Clara thought, reflecting on the way he’d reacted to her press joke weeks ago, on their fourth date. And then a thought hit her with a cold stab of shock. _Oh god, is he a minister? He can never meet Dad. Not ever. No._

"Ah, it's only a saying," he said, brushing off the question and the confusion packaged with it.  "Are you going to read that letter?"

"Are you going to give me a chance?" Clara snapped.

Malcolm laughed.

Clara chewed on her lip and sighed. "I'm sorry," she said at once. "I'm sorry that... that was not nice."

"It's no problem. Really, it's not," Malcolm said. "I've got thicker skin than that." His voice faded off at the end, as if he had pulled the phone off his ear. "Hey, two secs. Another call."

"I'll be here," Clara mumbled, tearing at the envelope with two hands, propping her phone to her ear with her shoulder. As she waited for Malcolm to return, she unfolded the letter—written once again on yellow lined paper—and started to read.

 _"Sweetheart_ ," it began, " _You dashed off in such a rush last night, so I couldn't mention a few key points from last night's conversation."_

 

> _1: Yes, there is a more pointless activity on this planet than parent-teacher conferences, and that's cricket._
> 
> _2: If you ever even jokingly call us a foodie again, I'll pop by your flat dressed in fuck all but chocolate sauce with a whipped cream cock sock. Might just do that anyway. It'd keep you on your toes._
> 
> _3: Make all the jokes you want about me. Really, go on. It'd take a wee bit more effort than that to get through this old skin. Or in your case, no effort at all._
> 
> _Look. You cut down to the heart of me. Try to take care of what's left in there._
> 
> _Xs and such._
> 
> _M._

"And we're back," Malcolm said in Clara's ear just as she got through reading the letter a second time. "Apologies."

"Malcolm, can you come over tonight?" Clara asked, her voice steadier than she imagined it would be.

He paused. "Yes, well, I was thinking about it," he said.

"Please do," she said. Then she caught herself. "I mean—not the thinking, you've done that part. I meant the coming over bit."

Again Malcolm paused. "Should I be worried?" he asked.

"No. There's nothing to worry about at all. Promise," Clara assured him. She closed her eyes and took a breath, praying for strength. _If Malcolm can write this, then I can say it._ "It's just… I think I'm actually—maybe—probably and possibly starting to... fall for you just… just a little bit. And I want to see your face to make sure."

"What, are my voice and my ball-achingly delivered words not enough?" he asked, but Clara could hear him laughing. How easily could she picture his smirk: the left corner of the mouth twitching to show a flash of teeth that made his bright eyes gleam, and the wicked transformation of his entire face to accompany the sneer.

"No—well I mean yes, they are, but your face is still wanted around here regardless," Clara said, biting on her lip again. "You have a way of brightening up a room whenever you walk in. Must be all that grey you're getting in."

The kiss Clara gave to Malcolm when he arrived half an hour hence started at her front door, led into the living room, and soon expanded to roaming hands and muffled moans in the living room. Clara had known Malcolm for a month and a half by this point, and she was more sure with every passing day that this had absolutely not been love at first sight—it had technically been love at spilled milk.

It was for this reason, as well as those kisses—and Malcolm’s warm, strong hands cupping Clara's face, stroking her back, holding on to her waist with a grip that was always so gentle, so painfully gentle—that made Clara work up the nerve to ask Malcolm to stay the night. And he had, of course he had.

 

The third love letter came with a bouquet of stargazer lilies, hypericum berries, powder-blue delphinium and lush, palm-sized, powerfully perfumed peonies. Sticking out of the flowers on a little plastic pick was a card addressed to her. It was marked with an even larger collection of Xs than the second letter.

 

> _Clara -_
> 
> _Not my words this time, but they're meant from me to you, and that's the heart of of it._
> 
> _'Draw the curtains, leave the world outside!_  
>  _There must be rest for all this weariness._  
>  _Let me annihilate myself upon your breast_  
>  _And find the solace of a grave!'_
> 
> _X._

Clara called Malcolm up to thank him for both the poem and the flowers. "I didn't know you read Baudelaire," she said.

"Didn't know I did either," he said, distracted. "What this about?"

"The flowers? And the card?" Clara said, flicking her fingers against the latter, making it sway back and forth in the bouquet. "Did you forget that I caught you reading _Les Fleurs du Mal_ while I was making us breakfast last week?"

There was a pause. It lasted long enough to make Clara giggle.

"How long, thereabouts, would you take the piss if I said yes?" Malcolm asked.

Clara chewed on her knuckle to force the laughter back in, composing herself as best she could. If Malcolm could manage to wield a forced air of solemnity, then so could she. "Not too long, don’t you worry," she said, her voice grave. "And I don't have any de Sade on the shelf, just so you know."

"Ha-ha, Yes, yes, very fucking funny," Malcolm said. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I already said thank you."

"Didn't catch it."

"No, I expect not," Clara teased. She walked into her living room and dropped down onto the couch, taking comfort in the misshapen, reliably comfortable cushions and the blue and pink pillows. Some of them were starting to take in the scent of Malcolm's cologne. "I can practically hear your mind churning away as you try to find some way to use a _Venus in Furs_ quote for the next one."

"Next one what?" he asked.

"Your next letter," Clara said.

"Oh, is that what you're calling it?"

Clara blinked, frowning. "Why… What are you calling it?"

 "Oh, I dunno. Something like practice."

 "For what?"

 "Nothing really," Malcolm said at once, careless and casual. But he was lying, and Clara had no idea why.

 

Malcolm’s letters, numbered four through fourteen, were hastily blotted bits of tenderness scrawled on corners of bills, the coffee-ringed squares of napkins, and more yellowed, musty Moleskine pages. Some even made an appearance in between the margins of op-ed columns in the newspaper, more often than not on a returning series about how every law-abiding, moral-possessing citizen of Great Britain ought to return to the lost imperial virtues that were the country's cornerstone. Malcolm usually wrote the more filthy letters on those sets, and Clara would be lying if she said she expected otherwise.

There weren't many parts worth quoting directly from these letters, as they often consisted of a variation of the phrase, "Love you, miss you, breathe easy, and take it steady," but the thirteenth letter had a rare, heartfelt confession worthy of mentioning. It stretched over two pages front and back, written in an even smaller, cramped hand than Malcolm's usual penmanship, as if he were trying to condense a feeling too great for the written word.

Malcolm gave the letter to Clara on a cold, cruel winter morning shortly after Valentine’s Day. The letter was left on Clara's night stand, next to a plate of heart-shaped, shortbread biscuits and a hot mug of tea. Clara woke up to the sound of Malcolm cooking breakfast downstairs, singing tunelessly along to Ziggy Stardust, which was playing on a loop. Dreamily, her body leaden with sleep, Clara listened to him for a while, before she turned her head and noticed the note.

Holding her breath inside the anxious bramble mess of her chest, Clara reached out to pick up the note.

 

> _Here's a thought that haunts us a bit: what is it that bleeds and aches and sighs, but has no wound to show for the trouble? I think I know. Do you?_
> 
> _Well, time's up. It's a lover. And if you haven't keeled over just yet, I've another little bit to tell you._
> 
> _You once asked if I liked what I do for a living, if there was anything worthwhile to get out of it. And all I told you was to come back to me and say how you felt after you punctured your eye sockets with sewing needles. It wasn't a threat, that. It was wrong, very wrong, and worst of all it was a misdirection. I'm sorry._
> 
> _Of course you already know the answer by now. You always saw more in me than most, and you understand even more than you see, which is an awful fucking lot, and most of it's awful, I expect._
> 
> _But to tell it to you straight: I don't fucking know. I don’t know if it’s worth cock-all anymore, and that's about as terrifying as knowing I could hurt you—could and did. And won't willingly do ever again._
> 
> _Still with us?It's too much sometimes—you know that too, don't you? It's too much and not enough and it's all I can do, but Clara, you're always enough. Always. How do you do it? Why don't you stop? Save some of you for yourself.There's so little I've left to spare, so little that's worth a damn. How did you end up with all of it? How do you find ways to make more?_
> 
> _Point is, whatever's left in me that's good loves every part of you. How could I not?_

Clara read it over again, too sick at heart for tears. She threw back the covers and greeted the pale Sunday morning with a stone-still expression. Snow was starting to fall outside in small cotton fluffs. She watched it gather along the windowsill long enough for an impressive pile to form, before she finally walked over to the bathroom, ready for a shower.

As if on cue, or perhaps by some miracle of aligned, merciful stars, Clara heard Malcolm's voice called up the stairs, shouting her name.

"I'm up here! About to take a quick shower," Clara called back, watching her face transform in the mirror as she spoke. All the life Clara had lacked for the past twelve hours due to her seasonal, leaden sadness, now returned at once. It was as if the flint finally caught hold of the tinder to make all those previously determined sparks of happiness into a respectable little flame of joy.

After the shower, and after Malcolm had explained that he had the whole morning free ("No meetings, no breakfasts, no pre-lunch lunches, no fucking cancer-spewing hacks to impress"), Malcolm joined Clara on the couch. The moment they both got settled, Malcolm fell almost instantly asleep with his head on Clara's lap. His pale thin lips were open, letting out faint sighs that were on their way to proper snores, but he kept twisting in his sleep and forcing himself awake again. Each time he did, his eyes flung open, wild and wide, eagerly searching for Clara’s face.

"Sleep if you have to," Clara told him each time he woke up thus. "You must need it."

"I'll sleep when I fucking want to, all right?" he'd said, but without any heat.

Patting him gingerly on the head and offering her kindest smile, Clara said, "Sounds just a bit childish coming from you, you know."

"Good. Means I'm young somewhere."

"At heart? Usually people mean they're young at heart."

"No, not here. Somewhere far away inside where it's dry."

"… The spleen?"

"Young at spleen?"

Clara shrugged. "Well you're always venting yours. It should be pretty well turned out, I think."

After staring at her in mock incredulity, Malcolm turned his head to the side and kissed Clara's thigh, choosing silence as his response.

Clara had a book open on the arm of the couch, a book she fully intended to read if she had a chance, but if Malcolm was going to make a habit of such kisses, then the book was going to end up more as a prop than anything else. As Clara skimmed the pages with half of her attention, she gave the top of Malcolm's head long, lazy pets and pats, passing her fingers through his short hair with the barest edge of her fingertips.

They both had their particular vices, and little touches and gestures that would always guarantee ecstasy. Clara’s was a kiss on the neck or Malcolm's mouth at her breasts, and Malcolm's was—well, the same. But head scratches seemed to be quite appealing to him, and it definitely seemed to be working right now.

As if sensing Clara's thoughts, Malcolm's eyes snapped open once more. He stared at Clara, his gaze all fury and fire. It made her heart feel far too large for the body it was in.

"Good almost-morning, Malcolm," Clara murmured, smiling.

Malcolm closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his palms against them, and yawned loudly. "Is it morning?" he asked, shaking his head. Clara waited until he lowered his hands before she answered, wanting to look him in the eye.

"Sunday morning to be precise," Clara said.

"Christ, already?"

Clara clicked her tongue in mock dissatisfaction and turned a page in her book. "Did you lose track again?" she asked, giving him a comforting little pat on the head. "It's a Sunday, Malcolm. The eighteenth, to be exact."

Malcolm blinked again, staring up at the ceiling with his eyebrows folded over to accompany the deep curve of his frown. "Friday was the budget policy meetings," he began, speaking his thoughts in a low voice. "Then the book launch luncheon. Again. That didn't take long at all, but it was as messy as watching young Benjamin chomp his way through a fucking Mars Bar."

Clara froze. He was talking about his work again, something he only did when pressed to do so. That he ventured the subject now, without giving any context, suggested just how tired he was. "Did that have anything to do with all those messages you kept sending me, asking me to meet you in your office with an ether rag?"

"I did that?"

"Yes. You gave explicit instructions to keep holding the rag over your mouth until you fell and cracked your head on the desk."

"I also said we could take turns, make a bit of a party out of it," Malcolm said. He smiled, but it did not meet his eyes.

"To which I said it sounded like you had a good whiff already."

Malcolm's smile deepened as he watched Clara laugh, taking in the sight and sound as if it were the warm steady glow of the summer sun. After a minute he lapsed off into thought. Clara waited for him to come back to her.

"On Saturday I had all hands in at the office. Had to stop the Mirror from running that bit about the PM getting locked in a primary school bathroom."

Clara's laughter broke off. She remembered her fear of a month ago, that Malcolm was either a journalist or a minister. She knew she should just get the courage to ask, but there was something curious about the way Malcolm mentioned his work, as if he expected Clara to understand its depths and purpose without having to explain what, precisely, he did. He didn’t forbid questions about it, nor did he give full, open answers when asked. It was an agonizing dance she disliked, but did not know how to break away from. Not when he was so convinced she understood him so well already.

"How did you get them to stop?"

Malcolm gave a careless shrug. "Let slip a few crumb trails leading to some back bencher's latest tryst. Might have arranged for them to get a table right next to the cradle-robbing action."

Clara took her eyes off the book and pinned them to Malcolm's own stare. He wasn't looking at her, but the gaze Clara gave him made him finally meet her eyes. "You can actually do that?" she asked. "Can as in… You would do that? That's something you would actually do?"

Malcolm held his fingers against his chest. "I can't personally do it, no," he said. "That reflects just a wee bit poorly on us, don't you think? But I have my ways," he added. "Ways and means."

"To hell with them both," Clara said, surprised at the steady way she could damn such a thing so repulsive to her. "It's not your hill to die on, Malcolm. It's just a job."

"Just my job, yes," Malcolm said.

Clara didn’t trust herself to speak. She flipped a page in her book and settled down against the cushions, putting her nails to Malcolm's scalp in light, painless scratches. He murmured appreciatively, and a few minutes lapsed by in silence before Clara dared to break it again.

"How was that story you planted any better than the one about the PM?" Clara asked, curious despite herself.

"It's not, if you're being honest with yourself," Malcolm said. "But it is when you remind the mincing twat reporting that their own affair is one email forwarding mishap away from reaching her husband. Where did I leave off?"

"Saturday."

"Yes, Saturday. Right." He paused, frowning again. "That's when we had the speaker-phone dinner, yeah?"

"Precisely," Clara said, squishing her fingertip against his the end of his nose. He batted Clara's hand away with a shake of his head, but she had caught his smile. "You dripped tomato sauce on some papers and blotted it dry with that tie I bought you last Christmas."

Malcolm peered up at Clara with a cutting gaze. There it was, the disgruntled moulting owl look she so loved. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

Clara smiled. "I saw the stains on the back of the tie. Shame on you, Malcolm. Trying to bury the evidence in the bottom of the hamper."

"Can't keep anything from you, can I?" he grumbled, but he was smiling again.

"And don't you dare even try," she said, gazing steadily into his eyes.

Malcolm gazed at Clara with a look that was so similar to how he'd been when they first met. It was as if he'd never seen anything like her in all the world, and he took a grand pleasure in keeping her in his sight, observing and learning and keeping track of all the different layers that, when folded over, made a person as startling as they were adored.

What Malcolm said next cracked Clara's heart clean open, the words striking along the fault line that had been running through her for weeks, ever since they first met. "I can't pretend to understand your faith in me," he said. "But I want you to know that I appreciate it. I always have."

The words spilled out of Clara before she realised they were alive inside, demanding to be heard and used to heal. "Because you cut down to the heart of me, Malcolm. And because you always know to take care of the part of me you find in there."

Malcolm paused, considering this with a thoughtful frown. "That's one of mine, isn't it?" he asked.

Clara grinned, ducking her head as she looped a little strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, that was yours," she said. "Not my words, but they're from me to you, and that's what matters."

"That's mine as well!" he pointed out, laughing. "Got anything else you want to take while you're at it?"

Clara shook her head. "No, I think I'm good for now."

"You're welcome, by the way," Malcolm said, smiling.

Clara leaned in close and pressed her lips to his cheek, moving her head just a little to the side to whisper: "I haven't even started to thank you yet."

A few minutes later, Malcolm was all but tripping up the stairs after her.

 

Later, before Malcolm left for his afternoon tasks, Clara ripped out a piece of paper from her address book and hurriedly wrote the following inside.

 

> _Legions of reveries I'd unleash_  
>  _after arming all to the teeth_  
>  _for love of you._
> 
> _Legions of wars I'd win_  
>  _to keep the Furies far at bay_  
>  _for love of you._
> 
> _And in the aftermath of legions,_  
>  _what little remains of my heart_  
>  _to keep and care and spare from_  
>  _returning grief, I'd give over and all_  
>  _for love of you._

Clara hid the paper inside of the suit coat Malcolm had picked out to wear that day. She smiled blithely as he kissed her goodbye, promising to be home for dinner this time.

About an hour later he called. "Did you write this?" he asked, and read the poem off.

Clara smiled dreamily, having just woken up from a nap. "Read it again, would you please? You have such a nice voice for poetry."

But Malcolm would not comply with the request. His voice was heated and low, as if he had run a great distance and could barely catch his breath. "I asked you a question. Is this one of yours?"

"Yes, Malcolm," Clara said, yawning into her hand. "Consider it a thank you for all the letters you’ve been leaving me."

Malcolm didn't say anything. And then, after a long, poignant moment passed, he snapped, "Oh bollocks."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, there's no fucking way I'm able to top that, right?" he scoffed. Within moments, they were both laughing, their hearts rich with the love they were not quite ready to say.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara finally learns what Malcolm does for a living—by visiting Number Ten herself. It doesn't go too well.

**Chapter Three**

 

 

When it finally came time to get rid of the flower bouquet that accompanied Malcolm's second letter, Clara was only half sorry to see it go. She had other things on her mind that morning, bold things, brash things—possibly foolish, ill-conceived things, and naturally, she would have to see the idea through to fruition.

A thought had nagged at Clara for some time now, ever since she and Malcolm had agreed that their relationship was as sincere as it was exclusive. Clara wasn't one to look the gift of sincere affection in the mouth, but she couldn't quite accept it now, in full. _It's all well and good for him to pledge himself as mine, but I barely know the basics of this man._ _Where are his family? And what about his friends? Does he even have any?_

_And most important of all, what on earth did he do for a living?_

And so one Saturday morning, after Malcolm swung by for a quick breakfast (“Dinner, to me”) before he popped back in to work, Clara squared her shoulders, took a breath, and finally worked up the nerve to press where she hadn't pressed before.

"So what _is_ your job? You never said."

It was a harmless question, delivered in the casual, breezy tone Clara usually saved for when students were too nervous to talk first. Clara called it her “splinter removing” voice, because her mother had always spoken as such: gently, calmly, with such warmth and smiles, laying it on thick as she tended to whatever little would Clara had gained during play time. It helped distract Clara from the pain, and it proved dead useful to Clara now as an adult, both for herself, and timid students.

_And now, suspiciously silent boyfriends._

Clara crossed the kitchen to make the coffee, not daring to look behind her just yet. Once she reached the coffee pot, she had no choice but to turn back. Malcolm was frozen him in mid-step. He looked as if he had hit a solid, invisible wall. He stared at Clara in a strict, absolute silence, refusing to answer.

There was something a little amusing at seeing him stand so perfectly still, as if his brain had jammed up and entered a sort of T _emporary out of Service_ state. Seeing him struggle like this made Clara feel the tiniest note of sympathy, considering he was also starting to get sick. Malcolm's nose was even redder this morning than it had been all week, and he had been sniffling ever since he arrived at her flat, alternating it with coughs that rattled deep in his chest.

Malcolm's impending head cold, combined with the dumbfounded look on his face, was just one more bit of evidence Clara had been collecting to say that yes, indeed, her impressively charming, foul-mouthed and marvellously insightful boyfriend was also fully human. No matter how much he glowered or sneered about the world and some people in it, he was still not above such small, miserable things like head colds and surprising questions.

"Are you going to answer or are you just going to stare at me like your head's caught in a fog?" she joked. He really did look a bit funny standing there, bleary-eyed and still rumpled from the sleep he was putting off.

Once she finished pouring the coffee out for them both, Clara returned to Malcolm and handed off his mug. He took it with a mechanical, slow snap of his hand. Still, he said nothing.

The mood in the room teetered uneasily from Clara's side (confusion and a bit of amusement) with Malcolm's (a keen curiosity that was always restrained, choked). His eyes were astonishingly alive as he looked Clara over. It was as if he were trying to slide his gaze under every bit of her face to find some fault or fracture, some place of weakness where a deeper, darker plot lurked behind the simple question.

After a few seconds of this treatment, Clara couldn't help but laugh. "Seriously, Malcolm. Enough," she said, unable to hide her grin. "You're being ridiculous."

It was her laughter that did him in. Clara knew that her smile could often break Malcolm from his grim, grave states, the same way his could for her. But she couldn't help but be relieved that it worked, even now.

"How else should I fucking react to a question like that? Sprung on us so early, and without warning, mind you. It's cheap."

Even though he still didn't relax from his frozen pose, Malcolm grinned at Clara. It was his real smile, all teeth bared, his eyes bunched up in an impressive fold of crows feet and forehead wrinkles. It might not be typically handsome to an outsider's pair of eyes, but it was a dearly adored sight to Clara regardless. Raw and true and alive, that's what Malcolm's real smiles were, to her.

"Your moods could give a girl whiplash if you aren't careful," she said, giving Malcolm a playful push with her knuckles.

Malcolm's long fingers wound around her wrist. He used it as leverage to pull himself closer to Clara, but she held her ground, refusing to cave to that heavy gaze. Standing close enough to knock knees, Clara took a breath and moved her eyes down from Malcolm's gaze to his crooked smile.

"This is an impressive amount of overreacting for a totally harmless question," she said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"I had almost guessed that," Malcolm said, nodding slowly. "But your nervous stammering these three minutes past was so subtle, you see, that I didn't want to make any undo assumptions."

Clara shook her head. "Your sarcasm is appreciated, but it's also unnecessary.”

“Why's that?”

“Because of diversion tactics," she began, just as Malcolm's gaze moved in a slow crawl across her lips then down her neck just in time to see Clara gulp gently.

"What about them?" he asked.

"You're doing them," she said.

"How am I doing them?"

"With an awful lot of nerve—and you're only doing it to distract from the glaringly obvious fact that you have yet to answer my question."

Malcolm chuckled. "Is that what I'm doing?"

"Yes, it is." Clara jabbed a finger into his chest. "So answer."

"I'm only dragging it out because the answer is supremely disappointing," Malcolm admitted.

While that was distinctly possible, Clara wouldn't be deterred. "I'll be the judge of that," she said, patting Malcolm's chest. "And that still wasn't an answer."

Malcolm stared at her for a long, quiet moment. He took a breath, paused again, and waited until her eyes were locked on him before he finally bothered to speak. "It's a very boring, deeply unsatisfying, morally impoverished career that's about as fun as a fucking vasectomy," he said, talking fast. His tone was clipped, as if he wanted to get the worst over with, and wanted the words well out of the way as soon as possible. It was a voice Clara knew well: she did the same for some of her students at Coal Hill—hell, sometimes even their parents.

Clara carefully mulled over his answer. There was really only one job that could be like that, only one job that sprung to mind immediately, as a sort of kneejerk, trained instinct. "So... Politics?" she mused. "It's sounding a bit like politics to me. Unless this is all just a guessing game of some kind?"

"It's not," he said at once. He looked strangely livid.

"Not what, not politics or not a game?" Clara put her mug down on the nearest countertop before she reached up to loop her arms around Malcolm's neck, pressing flush against his chest. His eyes were narrowed into a curious stare, and there was a flash of grit teeth beneath his thin, pursed lips that made her pause. Malcolm wasn't uneasy, no, but he was definitely on his guard.

"Either one. It doesn't fucking matter," he said, but he had paused just a beat too long. This additional delay only made Clara scowl. But then Malcolm added, "Pick one, whatever you'd like. It's not important."

"So it _is_ politics," she said. "Right. Okay. Journalism and politics."

Malcolm's frown far surpassed hers. "How'd journalism get into this?"

"You seemed a bit touchy about the press when I made that joke the first time I had dinner at your place," she said. "Did you forget? I didn't."

"Well of course I was touchy. It was a poor fucking joke, wasn't it?"

Clara ignored him. "Politics, journalism, and misery..." her face bunched up as she gave this all a good deal of thought. "You know, you might be right, Malcolm. That does sound like a boring place to work."

"Because it is," Malcolm said, not playing along. "And your understanding of that simple fact is greatly appreciated."

Clara shrugged. "Don't mention it. Though getting the answer out of you was a lot more difficult than it ought to have been. You know that, don't you?"

She didn't understand why Malcolm laughed so hard at this, nor did she really have a chance to ask. He quickly extracted himself from her half-hearted embrace, downed his coffee much too fast, and took a peek at the clock on the kitchen wall.

“Half past already? Fuck me merciless, I've got to go.”

At the door to her flat, Malcolm kissed her harder than usual, the kind of kiss that made her knees weak. The kiss was coupled with a sweet caress, which was unlike him at all. Malcolm's fingers trailed down the side of her face as he waited to see her smile. She gave it, albeit reluctantly.

"See you later," he said.

"See you. Take care."

“For you? Always.”

 

Clara was only recently coming to terms with the fact that Malcolm's job kept him at the office—wherever this office was—more than it seemed was either legal or healthy. There were very few jobs she could think of that would demand such dedication of their employees, and as she didn't want to guess wildly in the dark about something that should have been a simple ask and receive process, Clara had brought the topic up that morning in the hopes of clearing her confusion away.

How disappointing that Malcolm hadn't been willing to help with that, but Clara refused to admit defeat. It was an answer she wanted, and an answer she'd get.

After an angry shower (in which Clara spent most of it frowning under the shower head, and the other half of it having pretend arguments with herself), Clara emerged from the steam-clouded bathroom with a plan. A silly plan, but a plan all the same.

_I'll just call his office line and see what I can work out from there,_ she thought. _And it really would be as simple as all that this time, dammit._

A few weeks back, Malcolm gave Clara the number to his office, both the direct line and the line to his personal assistant. "Use it if you ever need to get in touch," he had said, and then quickly jotted down the second number. "And this is for when it's _absolutely_ important. That's Sam Cassidy, my assistant. Great girl, you'd like her. Told her all about you, so don't worry about having to come up with some bullshit cover story to avoid the truth."

"Okay, so... Two things. You want me to use your _assistant's_ line to reach you for important things?" she'd asked, staring at the two numbers scrawled out for her. "And to follow up on that, you _have_ an assistant?"

"Yes and yes."

"Right, because that's normal. Just who are you again?"

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, love,” he said in a mock ominous voice. Clara had laughed at it at the time, but now she wondered if he had been warning her.

Clara didn't think she would ever have to put either number to use all that much, but her strange conversation with Malcolm that morning had made it clear that desperate times would call for a desperate measure. Or at least, perfectly acceptable measures were called for during perfectly awkward situations.

Although Clara had never spoken to Ms. Cassidy before, once the preliminary introductions were out of the way (done with all due haste and polite cheer), she found it quite easy to get on with the other woman. Clara was surprised that Sam didn't even sound confused when Clara mentioned she was calling about a favour—but perhaps Sam was one of those gifted, hard to ruffle people. The sort that never felt a day's anxiety in their lives, and the sort that could easily change the momentum of life to work for them, instead of steamroll over them.

_A lucky person, in short._

"I know it's more than a little presumptuous to ask a favour when you hardly know me, Ms. Cassidy –" Clara began.

"You can call me Sam. I prefer that, actually. Please."

"Right, er. Sam. As I said, I know it's rather sudden...”

“That's no problem at all. Go ahead and ask.”

“Right, well, er. What is your work address?"

“Number Ten.”

“... Of?”

Sam laughed. “Of what else? Downing Street.” Sam told Clara without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Before Clara could react, Sam was firing off a question of her own. "Did you want something delivered for Malcolm?" she asked. "He's fond of tangerines if you're thinking about a fruit basket."

"No—I mean, I was thinking of actually, erm... Dropping by myself. He forgot something at my place last night, and I think it might be important." Clara closed her eyes as if that could make the lie sound more convincing. "Is that, er... Is that okay? Can I do that?"

Sam's pause lasted a few short seconds. "I can have you scheduled on as a personal visit," she said, and Clara heard a few taps and clicks in the background on her end of the line. "You'll need a photo identification, of course, but that's standard procedure. Normally Malcolm would have to vouch for you in person but I can sign off on that. And it'll have to be before noon. He's got an in office meeting at noon. Don't think you'd want to be a part of that."

"Oh well that's... that's sudden," Clara stammered. "How about... in an hour?"

"All right," Sam said, as if there were nothing wrong with this last minute arrangement whatsoever. Clara's head was starting to spin, full to the brim with the same number repeating over and over again in a louder, brutal cacophony.

"I'll see you in an hour, Ms. Oswald."

"See you." Clara hung up the phone, and then dropped her head down to the table with a hard thud.

 

An hour later, Clara somehow managed not to lock herself away in a panic at the thought of what awaited her, but to do exactly as she had planned. _Just get in there, call Malcolm out for the needless dramatics, hear a little of what he's got to say, and then come back home for a nap._

It was certainly the oddest plan Clara had ever made for a Saturday, to say nothing of the location. Number Ten, Downing Street. Number Ten... _oh god. Imagine the look on Dad's face if he could see me._

Clara shook her head and sank down lower in the seat in the back of the cab. _Don't think about it. Just... don't think about it—or, if you have to, think about it like this. It's just another place, isn't it? It's got walls, I imagine. Walls and ceilings... Lights... Chairs. Other basic examples of standard furniture. Nothing special—except for the fact that it's a bloody government building._

Well that certainly didn't help. Clara closed her eyes to shut out the passing blur of buildings, feeling sick. Not even her best “splinter removal” sweet voice could calm her down.

Desperately, childishly, Clara wished her mother were there, just to hold her hand and squeeze her shoulder. But her mother would do neither of those things—couldn't do either of them, in fact—and Clara would have to make due with memories and deep, calming breaths.

Clara's mood improved only a little once she arrived at Number Ten, through no small effort on her own part. She took a long, steady breath and closed her hands into fists with each exhale. The pressure of her nails in her palm made it easier to shut out the swell of anxious thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her composure.

As she had promised, Sam was the one to greet Clara, and she did so with a warm smile and a strong handshake before she handed off the visitor's pass. "Keep that in full view, please. Wouldn't want you carted off before Malcolm can see you."

Clara laughed. "Right, yeah. Wouldn't want that at all, would we?"

Sam turned on her heel and motioned for Clara to follow down a brightly lit hallway.

With a mixture of frayed nerves and irrepressible curiosity, Clara began to look around in quick little glances. The inside of Number Ten looked no different than the house of someone's posh, sour aunt. Nice carpeting, and a lovely interior design, with deceptively warm colour schemes for the walls and artwork adorning them. Fresh flower arrangements dotted several surfaces, and there was an understandable sense of tense precision flowing through the air, as if the atmosphere within the building had adapted to every meeting conducted under its rafters. Clara may not have been within the direct heart of government, but she was certainly within one of its major organs—a grim thought that made her cringe.

_At least Sam's nice_ , she thought, keeping her eyes focused on Sam's back as she followed a half-step behind. _That certainly helps._

Clara's assumption about Sam proved to be dead on the mark. Sam Cassidy had an air of enviable poise that suggested she was completely unaffected by where she went to work everyday, as if it really were just another job in just another building. Clara decided to follow Sam's example as much as she could manage, keeping her back straight, her shoulders strong, and her face composed.

It was hard for Clara to tell if anyone was looking at her, the obvious outsider, considering she didn't make eye contact with anyone that passed. The thought of attracting even the slightest bit of attention was distressing enough to make a sharp wedge of fear gather all of Clara's nerves in a knot, making her stomach roil and heave. Her breathing came low and steady, but she wanted nothing more than to crouch down and hide her face in her hands.

_Too late for that now,_ she thought, following Sam around a corner and taking the final steps to Malcolm's office. Clara felt like she was approaching the gallows.

The door to Malcolm's office was already open, and Sam was waving her inside with a few short snaps of her hand. Sam waited until Clara stepped inside Malcolm's office before she gave another smile. It was sweeter than last time, as if she could sense how nervous Clara was.

"Malcolm should be back soon," she said, one hand on the door handle, ready to pull it shut behind her when she left. "Is there anything I can get for you while you wait?"

"No, I think I'll be all right," Clara said, twisting her fingers into a cradle. The knots in her stomach were still giving rise to her fear. Clara knew that the blood had left her face, making her paler than before. "I'll just hide behind the desk and pop out when he comes in or—or something."

Sam laughed once. "Brilliant," she said, shaking her head. "Well, I'll be off. It was nice meeting you."

Clara could only nod as Sam left, suddenly unable to speak.

All at once, the sides of Clara's neck fluttered like a trapped bird, keeping time with her pulse. She was alone now, which was somehow both a relief and a terror. It helped to know that Sam had thought to shut the door, preventing anyone who passed in the corridor outside from seeing in. But even behind the closed doors, Clara knew she couldn't let down her guard.

"Just do what Sam said, yeah?" she muttered, needing the comfort of her own voice to help push away the panic. "Have a seat, relax, and wait it out."

Clara walked over to Malcolm's desk and took a seat in his chair with a hard thump. The leather was cold and stiff beneath her, and the chair itself was a bit difficult to turn. A few insistent twists and two firmly planted feet later, Clara managed to turn the chair away from the door and towards the wall behind Malcolm's desk. She stared at that for a while, comforted by its solid uniformity.

Walls were soothing no matter where they were. Staring at the wall always calmed her down, no matter what wall it was, or where. There was a long cabinet pushed flat against the wall, which was decorated with forgotten books, crystal paperweights, mounds and mounds of papers, and a surprising array of plants. Wire-thin pale yellow Moth orchids were in the centre of the display space, flourishing proudly under the deep golden lights. That was surprising. Clara didn't think Malcolm would have the patience for flowers, especially those as tricky as orchids.

In the corner to her left, over by the windows, Clara could see a healthy pair of spider plants illuminated by the pale lace-filtered sunlight pouring in through the windows. They brought a strange amount of life into the otherwise untidy, Spartan-looking office that seemed destined to drown endlessly in paperwork.

Taking heart at these little signs of life, Clara turned the chair with another great effort and faced the front of the room again. Scattered across any flat surface was an impressive assortment of cardboard boxes, all of them packed with folders that were bursting full of papers whose full details she couldn't quite make out from where she sat. Undoubtedly these were important documents, considering they were taking up most of the space in Malcolm's office, but Clara couldn't begin to see how he could keep track of it all. The boxes didn't even have labels on them.

On the coffee table in the centre of the room, which acted as a separator for two large leather armchairs that looked as unyielding as the one Clara was in right now, there was a small, white bowl. Sure enough, just as she expected, there were several tangerines inside. Malcolm must have been picking at them recently; Clara could see bits of their peels on his desk next to a round amber coffee stain, a cap-less pen, and an envelope decorated with idle doodles.

All of this—the plants, the lace-filtered light, the tangerines and doodles—put a nervous smile on Clara's face. Malcolm's office wasn't at all what she had expected, considering how he had described the job to her just that morning. It was clear that he had worked hard to leave some brief personal stamp behind, even if it was in the form of untidiness, yet the oppressive atmosphere of the whole building was as present as ever. Clara felt that any step, even a measured, carefully calculated one, could send a person hurling down fast over the edge. It set her nerves on edge just to be here, and she could only imagine what it must be like to stay here for hours day by day, to say nothing about working here for years.

_It would kill me,_ Clara thought without hesitation. _It would absolutely kill me._

Just as Clara was starting to take a keen interest in the bookshelf, wondering whether all those books were really Malcolm's, or if they were a sort of "came with the office" collection, she heard a familiar Glaswegian accent from down the hall. Malcolm. He would be here in any second.

With the few seconds left to plan her move, Clara forced the chair to face away from the office door and held her breath.

Malcolm's voice arrived well before he did. "Listen, son, the only weight you're throwing around here is that steroid gut you've still got crammed into a fucking man-girdle, hey?" A pause. "Yeah, see that you do." A shorter pause. "I'll see you in ten."

Malcolm stormed into his office, elbowing the door open with the same arm that was clutching yet another thick stack of papers to add to the fray already in the room. He scowled mercilessly at his phone before shoving it into the pocket of his suit and turning to look at his desk.

He froze.

Clara was struggling to get the chair to turn to the doorway again, feeling increasingly foolish the more she tried and failed to move.

Malcolm waited for her to turn the chair around, staring with a hollow glare that completely masked his thoughts.

"Hello again," she said. Clara folded her hands in her lap and smiled at Malcolm, waiting to see what he would do next.

Malcolm pushed the door shut with his free hand and held it there, keeping the tips of his fingers poised against the wood. He shifted his weight from one long leg to another and coughed once, a restless sound. Still he said nothing.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you are not happy to see me," Clara said.

"How did you even get here?" he asked, his voice low.

Clara studied Malcolm closely. He was deceptively calm and focused, which could only mean that his work mask well in place, and all its effects long since settled in. Was it always so easy for him to change when they were apart?

"Well?" he pressed.

"I got here by car," Clara said.

"Yes, very funny, sweetheart," Malcolm scoffed. "But why?"

"Well it's a Saturday and I'm not working... And your heavy-handed evasion this morning set off just a few warning bells," Clara said, still smiling. There was just enough of an edge to it, so Malcolm could know she was serious and more than a little annoyed. "Unfortunately you left before I could do anything about that. So... here I am."

Malcolm still refused to relax. It was hard for Clara to tell which emotion was more prominent on his face: shock or fury?

_He doesn't have much of a leg to stand on if he's cross with me,_ Clara thought. Then she caught herself. _Unless that's just his work face, a permanently furious snarl._

Clara leaned forward, digging her nails into the armrests and holding on for extra strength. "Why were you hiding this from me?"

Malcolm considered both Clara and his answer carefully. He took a breath, wet his lips, and started to speak.

Just then, someone knocked at the door, a rapid, eager staccato of knuckles.

"Fuck off," Malcolm said on reflex.

Whoever was on the other side of the door left in a hurry. Clara hoped it wasn't Sam.

Guilt hit Clara like a slap to the face along with a new emotion, one she had never felt at this point in her relationship: _regret_.

_I really shouldn't have come here. I should have just left it at the phone call to Sam, then confronted Malcolm later._ But it was too late for that now.

Instead of sinking down to the floor in the miserable puddle that matched her current mental state, Clara forced herself to her feet and stepped out from behind Malcolm's desk. The knot of regret tangling up in her stomach gave her the courage to move. It was the perfect antidote to her anxiety's naturally frozen state.

Clara paused within an arm's length of him, tilting her head back to hold his gaze. "You gave me your office number, remember? Yours and Sam's. You said I should call in an absolute emergency, or if I had to pass along a message that couldn't wait. Well, I did have a message to pass along, and it was a sort of emergency that couldn't exactly wait."

"So Sam knows you're here?"

"She gave me the directions," Clara said. "And she may have given me this fancy little visitor's pass, too." Clara showed it to Malcolm, her smile losing its edge and becoming much more shy. "I asked her to help me, so don't bother getting cross with her. It was all my idea."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to know why you lied," Clara said, staring Malcolm down. The longer she stared, the more the world around her seemed to fall away, creating a black curtain that blotted out almost the entire room, leaving only Malcolm's eyes and his worryingly startled expression for her to focus on.

Clara continued. "I also may have quite reasonably wanted to know what sort of job could be so important that it makes my boyfriend work so bloody hard nearly every day," she added.

She couldn't help but notice the way Malcolm's mouth twitched at the word _boyfriend_. He had teased her for using it a few times before, when it became obvious that they were heading towards a more committed, serious territory than bumping into each other at a Tesco could have previously indicated. But Clara hadn't mentioned it here hoping to get a laugh out of him. No, she wanted to remind him what that title meant, both to her and to him.

_Hopefully._

Clara reached up to stroke the side of Malcolm's face, taking note of the lines around his eyes and mouth, noting as well the thin veins that flexed in his temples. "I'm not joking when I make all those comments about you going grey, you know. It really does feel like you're getting older right in front of me, and the list of potential causes is honestly quite small."

Her touch sparked a fire in Malcolm's eyes that hadn't been there when he first walked in. Malcolm's shoulders heaved as he took a breath, straightened up, and ran the edge of his fingernail across his mouth. He glanced at the chairs towards the middle of the room.

"Let's sit down, yeah?" he said, pointing to them. Just as he did, the papers in his folder all slid out. They splayed across the floor in a soft hush, some landing in piles thanks to being clipped or stapled together, whereas others fluttered out in a wide arc.

Both Clara and Malcolm stared at the mess, too frustrated to laugh.

Clara was the first to crouch down and begin collecting the papers, flipping some over or turning them right-side up with quick twists of her wrist and fingers.

"Don't—!" Malcolm shouted, a tense note of pain moving through his voice. It matched the expression that shot across his face.

Clara sat down on the backs of her legs and peered up at him. "Don't you dare yell at me, Malcolm," she warned him.

"I'm not yelling," he said in a loud voice. The veins in his temples were showing again.

"Well you could have fooled me!" she fired back, eyes narrowing as her teeth clenched. Clara made her hands into fists for a brief second before she forced herself to let go and take a breath. "I won't read anything, okay? I don't even know what the hell half of this is about."

Malcolm ran his hands through his hair, dragging his nails across his scalp. "That's not it," he said, his teeth clicking at the end of the sentence. "That's not the fucking problem here."

"So what is the problem?" she asked, handing off little piles of sheets each time he reached out for what she had. Clara made sure not to touch his hand, not wanting to make contact again.

Malcolm's answer was simple and direct, the way all harsh truths should be. "I never wanted to see you here," he said.

Something mixed between a scoff and a laugh bubbled out of Clara's mouth. "Oh, that's nice. Really nice, Malcolm. Thank you."

"Didn't mean it like that," he said quietly. The change in his tone startled her, but it wasn't enough to smooth her temper over. Not yet.

"Do you think I wanted to come here?" she asked, noticing that he was keeping his eyes deliberately pointed away from her face. "Do you think I wanted to go digging behind your back for answers you didn't feel like giving me yourself? I can tell you right now the answer to that is a flat, firm no, Malcolm. It's not exactly the best way to spend a Saturday morning, wondering why my boyfriend is dodging around a perfectly harmless question—and yes, I said boyfriend," she added with a stab, noticing his reaction again, "because that's what you are, whether you like it or not."

"Right, let's break that entire, structurally unsound argument down, yes? The first bit's a blatant assumption," Malcolm said, his voice still low, his eyes still pointed anywhere but at Clara's face. "The second is close to out-right fucking slander. Makes us sound ungrateful."

"Then how about you tell me what you think you are?" Clara challenged, passing another large mound of papers over to Malcolm. Her fingers brushed against his, and they both drew back with a start.

Clara stared, stunned. Malcolm's hands were shaking. Ever so slightly, yes, but there was a noticeable tremor running down through the long stems of his fingers right up to the tips.

With this in mind, Clara looked at him with a new purpose. Malcolm looked like a wire strung too tight, or an arrow tensing in the bow seconds before being launched. His surface composure was just that: all surface and shallow, a mask with peeling paint and cracked bone keeping it all in place.

_He's just as nervous as I am._

Clara waited until Malcolm's eyes moved to meet her gaze before she reached across the distance that separated them. Curling her fingers over the top of his hand, Clara squeezed it tight, offering what comfort she could without knowing which words would be best to say.

"Malcolm... What's wrong?" she asked, making sure to keep her eyes on his face and her expression free of suspicion.

Malcolm glanced down at Clara's hold on his hand. He shifted his weight, clearly not comfortable staying crouched for this long. Malcolm sniffed again, let out a little, quiet cough, and pressed his lips down tight to suppress it from becoming anything worse.

"Let's get this mess sorted before we start that conversation, yes?" he said.

Clara nodded. That was fair.

The ID badge that was clipped onto Malcolm's belt caught just then. The momentary glare caught Clara's attention, drawing her eyes down to the laminated little square.

_Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications._ The man in the picture, a much younger looking version of the one within arm's length of her, had rich dark brown hair, a chillingly harsh expression, and just a mere glimmer of life in his bright eyes. Several years separated the Malcolm that Clara knew and loved from the Malcolm that was in the photograph, and that terrified her. How could he have aged so much in so short a time?

_He's worked here for years, hasn't he?_ she thought, staring at the picture, all the while feeling the weight of his eyes roving across her face. The very notion of Malcolm spending so much of his adult life in a job he was either too protective or ashamed of to mention freely, cut into Clara like a shard of glass, but the ache was soon replaced by a long delayed realisation. Almost comically delayed, in retrospect.

Clara steadied the ID badge between her fingers, biting down her lip as she read the title again. "Director of Communications," she said, breaking off into a quiet laugh. "Sort of funny, isn't it? Considering this entire morning has been nothing but a series of events based entirely around a lack of communicating."

Malcolm's gaze was locked onto Clara's face, patient and attentive.

Clara took a breath—and that's when it hit her. Finally. "Oh my god, Malcolm," she squeaked. "You work for the _government_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's the first of two parts, so sorry for the cliffhanger. Also, I wonder how many of you caught the reference to the "antagonist" in the previous chapter? It's nothing special, really. If you've read this fic before you know what's coming (and who plays a part in it), but part of the fun of this rewrite is that I get to make things less... random and awful :D;;


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

  
  


"... Yes, I know that," Malcolm said, his tone incredulous and his expression even more so. His eyebrows pinned themselves into a single bent arch over a pair of disbelieving eyes. "Did you just now piece that together?"

“'Course I didn't," Clara said, shaking her head quickly. She let his ID badge go and put her hand on Malcolm's knee for balance. "I might have been keeping it at bay for a few minutes... Or almost an hour, whatever, time's relative—but what matters is now I understand why you didn't want to see me here."

"Do you?"

Clara nodded. Malcolm's expression grew concerned. His gaze searched back and forth between hers, the way a desperate man clings to the frayed ends of a rope before a drop down into darkness. The only way she could think to alleviate that look and the emotion it inspired was to keep talking, and that is exactly what she did, however difficult it was to speak.

"You've got two lives going on here, haven't you? There's the job Malcolm," Clara said, nodding towards the ID and the papers still sprawled around them. "And then there's the Malcolm that I know... The one who was so surprisingly good-natured over a broken bottle of milk. You've got the one life, and I'm... I'm—"

Malcolm had completely abandoned any interest in the papers on the floor but he was still crouched, still tense, still looking at Clara as if she were within seconds of cracking up. That's when she noticed she was laughing.

When Clara found her voice again, it was a timid squeak. " _I'm_ in Number Ten!" she said, and those four little words fell into the cold silence that froze half the office.

Malcolm held his tongue and let the silence in the room carry on. Clara was the one to break it a few seconds later, dissolving into hysterical laughter that clashed with the oddly strangled look on Malcolm's face.

Clara knew she must sound absolutely mental. What had started out as a little chuckle quickly grew into an almost fit, and she saw no way to stop it now that it had her in its grip. Anxiety was a cruel and strange creature of unusual habits.

_Get a grip, Oswald._ Clara pulled her hands off of Malcolm and flattened them against her mouth, trying to trap in the sound. It didn't work.

"Oh good bloody God _,_ " she forced out between laughs. "Why the hell am I here? Why did I think this was a good idea?" Clara shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip, pulling at the skin, worrying it enough to draw blood. "I've got to get out of here. I've got to leave."

"You'll want to compose yourself a bit first," Malcolm said. The strangled looked was still on his face, but he also seemed to be fighting a smile, as if her delayed reaction were starting to amuse him too. “Take your time. I can bolt the door shut but I can't promise they won't come barging in with torches and axes and Twitter feeds of someone's latest cock up.”

“I'll make it quick, then. Give me a moment.”

Malcolm nodded, saying nothing—though he did reach out carefully, quietly, offering his hand to Clara. And she took it at once, the way a drowning woman clings to one friendly hand that dares the tide to pull her back to the air. Her small hand was enveloped in his larger fingers, but his touch was so gentle, so warm and complete. It made Clara breathe easier again—but it did nothing to soothe her mind.

_Not content to make her laugh like an idiot, Clara's anxiety now took on a voice, that old familiar weight of dread rising up to turn her thoughts into mire and muck._ _And none of this occurred to you when you were on the phone with Sam?_ she asked herself.

_No,_ Clara answered. _No it absolutely did not._

Of course Clara had her suspicions about his job from the start of their relationship. The long hours, the rather handsome suits, the calls at all hours of the night—none of this had passed by unnoticed, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it meant. When she and Malcolm spoke it was never on the subject of politics or anything that even came close to current events, which wasn't to say that Clara wasn't aware that the world was a troubled, brutal place. She did know it, and she would have known it even if her father hadn't taken up political conspiracy theories with the same gusto he had once helped arrange her toys in a mock doll Parliament all those years ago. Clara just couldn't justify subjecting herself to the world's anxieties any more than she could stop them from happening, and she had quite enough of her own to deal with. Now it seemed as if that blindness had expanded to create a sort filtered hearing, the kind that could stop her brain from fully accepting the fact that her disgruntled older boyfriend worked for the government.

"You know, out of all the guesses I could have made about your job, this was the absolute _least_ likely," Clara said, pulling herself out of the mire of her thoughts with a jarring effort.

"Well I would say that I'm happy to go against your expectation, only it looks as if you're about to dissolve into another mad fucking round of hysterics, so where's the fun in that victory?" Malcolm said. His expression softened as he looked Clara over. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

"I am, quite possibly, the furthest from all right in this moment than I have ever been in my entire life," she said. After a few more seconds of this embarrassing display—well, at least it was embarrassing to _her_ , Malcolm simply looked like he was in a tremendous amount of pain—Malcolm pushed himself up to his feet and reached down for her hands.

"Up you get, come on," he grunted, pulling Clara to her feet with his customary tender, warm strength.

Once Clara was standing up again, Malcolm leaned down to put his face close to hers. It was easy to see that his concern was flat out worry now. "Right, okay," he said, nodding to himself. "Into the cupboard. Less chance of being overheard in there."

Clara watched, half-focused and still fighting back a hysterical laugh as Malcolm led her over to the only other door in the room. It opened into a small sort of compact kitchen, complete with cabinets, Formica counters, a fridge, and a miniature table with generic matching chairs.

As soon as the door was open, Clara hurried over to one of those chairs and sat down fast, pressing her hands between her knees and keeping her eyes on the floor. The room was starting to spin, and darkness was creeping in on the edge of her vision, creating a pinpoint focus for her eyes. Clara knew what this meant. She'd had more than a few anxiety attacks in her life before. All that was missing was the suffocating tightness in her chest, burning its way up through her heart and into her throat.

Malcolm shut the cupboard door with a tight snap. His shoes came into view as he approached Clara, pulled out a chair, and sat across from her. Neither of them could relax. Clara could sense the tension in the air around him, filling him with just enough breath to make it for the next gasp.

_Is this what it's like for him every day,_ she wondered, _or is this just my own anxiety talking now?_ It was getting harder to tell.

When Malcolm held her hands again, Clara noticed he was no longer shaking. This pulled her back to her senses. If he could settle down, so could she.

_I have to._

Looking into those eyes she already loved, Clara asked, "Are we going to talk now?"

"Yes," he said at once. But then neither of them said anything.

Clara stared at her hands, her fingers interlacing with his. "So... This is your job," she said.

"It is, yes."

"A job you didn't feel like telling me about."

Malcolm scowled from his eyebrows down to his mouth. "You're still on about that?"

"I'm almost over it," she said. "Coming around a bit now."

"Are you really?" he wondered.

Clara nodded. "I imagine it's not exactly an easy conversation starter, is it? People look at you funny once they know how you make a living, no matter who you are. Either they think your job's not good enough, or it doesn't pay well, or it isn't... I don't know, _acceptable._ "

As she spoke, Clara thought of her father and Linda, and something must have shown on her face because next she knew, Malcolm was squeezing her hands tight enough to press all the words he couldn't say into her skin. When she looked up from the floor and into his eyes again, she saw nothing but sympathy, real and true sympathy, reflected in his stormy eyes.

Clara gave herself a little shake and started again. "Or worse, what if your job is something _important_? Something that actually matters to the world? If that's the case then I imagine people start looking at you like you're prime meat. Something to pick at and tear off the best parts for themselves, depending on how useful you are."

"It does tend to make short work of even shorter discussions," Malcolm admitted.

"Does that bother you?"

"Not anymore, no," he said. He stared off, his eyes becoming glazed. "It used to. For a little while."

All these answers came in short bursts building up to a longer truth. "Used to?" she asked, hesitating.

"It was a very long time ago, with—someone else," Malcolm said, and Clara knew he was omitting a name from this discussion. "I was hoping to avoid dredging up that septic tank of personal information this time around."

Clara waited. "How long did you want to avoid it?"

"For as long as I could manage.”

Clara frowned. _Well at least he's being honest. No one said I had to like it, though._ "Did you expect me to just stop caring about your life the more you left me in the dark about it?" she demanded. "Or were you _hoping_ that I'd let the matter drop so you could avoid ever having to tell me?"

Malcolm's scowl reappeared as his eyes met her wounded glare. "That's quite the leap in logic," he said.

"It's not a leap," she argued, taking no offense to his remark. "It's nothing like a leap at all, Malcolm. It's a simple step process of thought."

"So walk us through it.”

"Gladly. Each time our conversations have strayed even a little bit along the edge of what either one of us does for a living, you give me the barest information possible, and deflect all questions back onto me. It's happened every single time," Clara said, leaning in close as she gathered steam. "And I haven't said anything about it until now because _you_ were the one clearly hiding something, and I wasn't going to be the one to force you out of that. That had to be done on your own. But you wouldn't do it, so I... I had to try something else."

They both sat in silence, looking at each other with keen, direct stares. Malcolm kept one hand on hers but he pulled the other one back, scratching at his hair again. Clara could hear the prickling scrape of nails against skin, and she wondered if he did it as some kind of nervous habit, a way to distract him from the frustration he was undoubtedly feeling.

_Just like me and my nail biting and finger chewing,_ she thought. _Just one more thing that makes him human._

"I did _think_ to tell you about it eventually, you know," he said. "But since it would have so terribly spoiled our otherwise riveting discussions—that's not sarcasm, by the way, I rather do enjoy them—"

"Thank you," Clara said, her voice quiet. "I do too."

Malcolm smiled, but it didn't last long. "But honestly, for me to have brought it up would just be an indelicate way of cramming the topic in, and there's no need to ruin a nice chat with pure shit, now is there?" he finished.

Clara sensed a bit of his Director of Communications charm and verbal finesse was at work in that answer, but she still considered it, not quite ready to dismiss it entirely. "Not even when I asked about it directly? Like this morning" she asked.

"You caught me off my guard then. Couldn't think straight after that."

"So aren't you glad I found a way to save you from the trouble of saying it yourself?" Clara asked.

Malcolm didn't laugh. He looked like he wanted to rip every single one of his teeth out and grind them to powder in his fists, and there was no amount of smiling or laughter that could make such a deeply layered level of self-loathing funny. "I'll be glad for it eventually," he said.

Clara let that grim statement hang between them, choosing not to address it. Not yet.

Using her free hand to pat the back of the one Malcolm was still holding, she drew up straighter in her chair and changed track. "So. Director of Communications, eh? Fancy title. Sounds important.”

Malcolm watched her carefully, frowning.

"You know, I was worried about you being _a_ politician but that sounds like you're one of the top brass, doesn't it? Almost like you're _the_ politician or something."

That got him to laugh at last. " _The_ politician?" Malcolm repeated. "Is there some sort of grading scale out there to determine just _how much_ politicking a person does?"

"If there were, you would know more about it than I would," Clara said. She tried to laugh as well, but it sounded just a bit too forced.

"The answer to your ever so studious question is all there in the title," Malcolm said after a little pause. "If a certain set of responsibilities falls under the ever-expanding definition of what it means to communicate—or fail to, really, it's more that than anything else most of these fucking days days—then it's my job to catch it, sort out the kernels from the shit, and try to make the shit more palatable."

"How lovely," Clara said, wrinkling her nose. Again, at least he was being honest. "And what would your _official_ duties be, without all the excrement imagery?"

Malcolm scratched at a vein that was twitching at his temple. "Policy announcements, arrange a few media appearances, draft official responses, write speeches—"

"Hang on," Clara interrupted, holding up her hand as if to force Malcolm's words back to him. "You write _speeches_? For who, the Prime Minister?" This was a joke, of course, but it backfired beautifully.

"Not always," Malcolm admitted, and he looked as if this were a sour point for him, a real sore thorn that needled his pride. "He'll try to sneak in an improvised line or two, you know, sly-like. As if I didn't write it all up myself and know every line back to fucking front. Wants to be a man of the moment, for the moment, by the—Christ with a crutch, I don't know. But there are a few other departments floundering around who get my attention, especially when they wander off into a minefield and need a way back to the trenches."

Malcolm's tone, coupled with his bleak and grim expression, made the knot in Clara's stomach work itself into another painful tangle. "That sounds a bit terrifying," she said.

Malcolm let go of her hand and leaned against the back of his chair with a hard thump. He passed his fingers over his face as if trying to pry himself free of the tension that had settled into his expression, but all he accomplished in the end was to push it in further. Stone-faced and guarded, Malcolm looked at Clara with a keen, curious focus. At that moment she became suddenly much more interested in her hands.

"Let's change gears a bit," she said, shifting in her seat. "Have you ever been on TV yourself?" she asked.

"No," Malcolm said at once. It was almost a shout. "No, that's not—that'd be a bit above and beyond the call of duty, yeah? Even for us, slave to the fucking wage as we are," he said, laughing. But it was a nervous laugh, an awkward sort of chuckle that made him jolt in his chair and it soon tapered off into a deep, wet cough.

Malcolm's voice, when he spoke again, sounded as raw as a wound that hadn't quite closed over into a scab. "I know my role. I know it well and I stay in that role. I put the talent out there, feed them a line or two, and maybe threaten to break only one bone as an incentive for good behaviour."

"Is it always that bad?" Clara asked, noticing the change in his voice. "I mean, there must be something nice to get out of it."

"It's a job," Malcolm said at once, but this felt too much like a deflection than a sincere reply. "You get what you can out of it, and it takes whatever it fucking wants out of you. That's how it works."

"And what about when things go well?" Clara asked, taking both herself and Malcolm by surprise. "What happens when things are, er... Less awful than they always are?" Clara shrugged, opening her hands up and out until they fell down to the sides of her lap. "Do you have some sort of reward system in place?"

Malcolm didn't have to consider this for long. "That's when I pop around to see you," he said. "That usually helps. That's the reward, yeah? Seeing you."

From any other man, those words would have sounded far too insincere to leave even the smallest mark on Clara's heart. It would have been an obviously heavy-handed effort to charm her, to smooth things over, and dismiss any hurt that might still be lingering in the air between them. But coming from Malcolm, from a man who didn't often divulge much in the form of devout, emotional confessions, and whose sincerest compliment to date had been high praise about her impressive repugnance to bullshit of all kinds, it was near kin to a sonnet.

Clara shifted in her seat, feeling a nervous blush creep up her neck and into her cheeks. "Well at least you're finding _something_ to keep you happy," she said, scratching her cheek hard enough to scrape it. "Dunno why you'd think to pick _dating_ of all possible things as a reward. That's a bit romantic and soft, isn't it? Doesn't quite fit the rabid wolverine image you've got going for yourself, does it?”

"Well I was once told I was raised by a Scotch wolf,” Malcolm said, grinning. “So I'm just living up to the expectation.”

And just like that, the tense atmosphere that had been winding up all of Clara's nerves and turning her into a frayed, fumbling knot broke completely apart. Clara took a breath, the first in what felt like ages, and relaxed where she sat, feeling a natural smile take the place of all the ones she had been forcing up until that moment.

"I should go back home," Clara said, her laughter tapering off into a nervous mumble. "It was silly to come here. Really, it was. And not the good kind of silly either, the kind of silly that can kill a woman stone dead with terminal embarrassment."

Malcolm's thumb continued to stroke the outside of her leg in slow half-circles. He tapped his own leg in a sort of restless rhythm, but when Clara looked into his eyes she saw nothing but an enviable composure, similar to how Sam had carried herself when she led Clara to Malcolm's office. Clara wondered if this, too, were some kind of trait inherited from working in the building, or if it was some kind of necessary characteristic for wanting to be here in the first place. Keeping calm in the eye of the storm, even when it was all going to hell around you.

"Sorry to have thrown off most of your morning," Clara said. The words were barely out before Malcolm was shaking his head.

"No, no, a good jolt is nice every now and then," he argued gently. "Helps keep a man on his toes."

"Thought you got more than enough of that from here," she said.

"Yes, but it's better when it comes from you. Something has to keep me young. May as well be you.”

They both got to their feet. After reaching out to rest his hands on Clara's shoulders, Malcolm leaned down to kiss her forehead, his lips lingering in a gentle press until he was sure that all the tension evaporated from her body. He stepped back and searched Clara's eyes once again, his pale eyes sweeping through her dark gaze.

"Will you come over again tonight?" Clara asked, reaching up to run her fingers down the front of his suit, adjusting his tie. "If you can spare a few hours, that is. I know you're the main filter for every major political news story in the country now, so I'll understand if you can't spare more than a quick phone call."

Malcolm ignored this last part with a deliberate effort. "'Course I can," he said at once. "I can do that with no question." His relief was as raw and bared in his eyes as it was in his voice, but Clara didn't quite understand where it was coming from. What could _he_ have to be nervous about?

Malcolm's hands were still on her shoulders. Clara watched as his face broke through the composed mask, and it soon became a look of an almost compulsive need, an honesty as terrible as it was true.

"You're important to me, yeah? Remember?" Malcolm said. "You're my reward for a reason."

It was getting harder to think straight with Malcolm looking at her like that, as if every secret and long buried part of him ached to fill up that tiny gap between where she stood and hold himself flush against her body. Clara tightened her hold on the front of his suit, cleared her throat, and kept herself on her feet out of a sheer effort of will.

"Well I'll... I'll try to live up to that standard," she said, somewhat breathless. "By doing absolutely nothing different from before, of course."

Malcolm patted her shoulders again, offering a rare, small smile. "That's my girl," he said. "Thanks for dropping by. It was a real treat. Usually I'm the one crumbling into a pile of fucking hysterics and nerves before noon. Glad to see someone else can sympathize with the neurotic ritual."

Clara laughed and stepped out from under his hands. "Thanks for finally having me here," she said.

Malcolm followed Clara into his office and stayed closed behind her as she walked across the room towards the door. Before she could open the door, his hand found her wrist and he pulled her back with a quick, strong tug. His lips were on hers at once, startling her with the hunger of his kiss.

Reaching past Clara to open the office door, Malcolm's face became the near twin to stone again. He nodded at her, his muscles tensing from his temples down through his neck. "Anytime," he said. And she knew in the surest depths of her heart that he meant it.  
  


Malcolm arrived at Clara's flat later that evening with dinner (pizza and beer, as per her request), and an effortlessly warm grin to match every kiss he gave. Both tender bits of affection were to her absolute delight, even though she was sorry to see that Malcolm was somehoweven sicker than when she'd last seen him just hours ago. His nose was redder, and his skin felt far too warm and clammy, as if there were a fire under his bones, determined to turn him into dust.

If he was getting sick, that didn't stop Malcolm from spoiling her with an overabundance of tactile consideration. Every touch of his lips on hers sent Clara's head spinning, both from the tenderness of every kiss and from the glasses of wine she'd had about a half hour before Malcolm arrived.

Clara didn't have the heart to admit that she had pre-empted the beer with two large glasses of her best white zinfandel, but there was a little rational voice that chimed in from the back of her mind to remind her that she probably wasn't all that composed anyway. _If he didn't know you were just a bit tipsy when you fell against him at the door, then he_ has _to know now that you're half-lying in his lap._

_Probably,_ she admitted right back. But that was a risk Clara was more than happy to take, especially considering how nice it felt to be with Malcolm after that absolutely horrible mess of a day.

Luckily it was clear he felt the same way. With one arm wrapped around Clara's shoulders to hold her against his side, Malcolm had begun stroking her hair from almost the minute she leaned into him, gliding his warm fingers out to the ends and brushing them back from her face and neck. He seemed in no hurry to move from this spot at all – if anything he had relaxed into it, fitting himself around her as best as the position could allow.

With the wine buzzing in her head and the beer starting to take hold of her courage, Clara pushed against Malcolm until she had enough distance to get a good look at his face. Something had been lurking in the edges of her mind ever since she got back from Number Ten earlier that day, something he'd said just before she left. Clara replayed the words once more in her mind, letting them blot out every other thought.

" _Remember? You're my reward for a reason."_

Gazing intently at Malcolm, her entire face working hard to keep herself focused and in place, Clara gave him a sharp poke in the side, just against the soft warmth of his stomach. "Hey, psst."

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked, a bit distracted by the movie she had put on earlier. It was an old favourite of hers, something harmless and sure to kill a good two hours with well-timed laughter and cheer. _Arsenic and Old Lace_ always had a way of cheering Clara up even when all the world seemed to be pushing hard against her back, trying to work her bones to dust.

Clara reached out for Malcolm, hoping to pat his shoulder or maybe just rest her hand against his face, but somehow she ended up squishing her fingers against his cheeks until he looked like a grumpy puffer fish in her hands. Clara stared Malcolm dead in the eye, laughter bubbling up in her chest at the sight of him so lovingly distorted.

"You are terrible... And terribly important to me," she said, forcing each word to sound as gravely dire as they felt inside her head. "Remember that, okay? Next time you have to go in to work on a bad day and you would rather chew glass or stick yourself balls deep in a trash compactor, you remember me like this, right here and now. You remember me sitting here giving your nice old face a squeeze, telling you how much you mean to me."

Malcolm blinked. He only kept silent by personal choice, and that was to avoid the embarrassing situation of having to talk while his face was half squished up by Clara's hand.

Clara continued to speak, finding it hard to stop now that she was giving a voice to the secret life inside her heart. " _You_ , Malcolm Tucker, are important to me. You mean so much, and give me even more than even that. It's scary. I'm scared. I'm bloody terrified. It keeps me up at night sometimes, you know? Just how much I care, and how much it keeps getting worse or better—or too much. It's too something, that's what it is. But that's fine. I don't mind being anxious like that." Clara nodded slowly, making Malcolm's head bob along too, as if he agreed. "It's the good kind of anxious. The kind that can turn into love when you're not looking."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed. He lifted his arm very slowly and wrapped one hand around her wrist, prying her fingers off his face so he could finally speak.

"Say that again," he breathed, his voice unexpectedly warm as the words fanned out across her face. "Go on. Say it."

Clara leaned forward until the very tip of her nose brushed against his. "I am in love with you, Malcolm," she said. "I don't lay in bed at night holding back sleep for anyone else. Never did it before and I'll never do it for anyone after. Because I don't want anyone after. I want you. I love you... _and_ your nice old face."

The wine may have made Clara brave, but it was only because her heart needed all the courage she could get to speak freely. This marked the first time she ever told Malcolm she loved him flat out and in direct, open words.

Malcolm's eyes roamed over every sincere inch of her face, perhaps looking for a fault line like he had that morning. Once again, like that morning, he found none.

Moving with a speed that made Clara gasp, Malcolm wrapped her in his arms, pulled her close to his chest, and gave her the kind of kiss that could knock teeth and crack bones and steal every last gasping breath from a set of burning lungs. It did all this and more. Clara's head spun again, madly, adoringly, as her lips bruised under his caress. Each gasp she took between their kisses was ultimately useless; he was determined to leave leave her breathless.

Slowly the fog cleared from Clara's head and the sensible thoughts began to return again. _We'll never make it to the bedroom like this._

Malcolm moved his lips to her ear and said, "I love you, Clara Oswald," with a growl that was all devotion, an heartfelt and tender fury. “You ghastly wee beastie, I love you most of all.”

There went her breath again.

  
  


Gently, loving, Malcolm helped Clara off the couch and into her bedroom—where she fell asleep the second she sat down on her bed, all the wine and beer having gone to her head. Her last memories before she passed out were of Malcolm tucking her in and muttering something about not needing a sword to lie between them to keep him honest.

“Mabinogin?” Clara muttered, nestling into the blankets and pillows, her mouth still warm with the taste of him. “Or the Nibelungenlied?”

And she fell asleep.

Clara dreamed that she was carrying a Sword of the Mythic Dawn through the fires of Number Ten, chasing Malcolm down to save him—or capture him? She wasn't quite sure. There was a raven at her back and a beast in her heart, screaming at her to find him, get him, capture him fast, but to kill or care for, she couldn't quite be sure. Not even the witch in her dream, the Mistress of Mysteries, with her bag of tricks and book of spells and cauldron of concerns could answer this question for her.

“I suppose love is like that, isn't it,” the Witch said. Clara wasn't sure what to call her, so she kept using Mistress and the other woman seemed to like that very much. “It kills you. Cradles you. Cares for and slaughters you. There's old magic in that, yes. Don't need a sword to get the job done when you've got a heart full of blood and enough kindness inside to be cruel.”

The raven at Clara's back screamed. The beast in her blood cried. She said nothing as she walked into the fire, heading for the silhouette she was certain would be Malcolm. She didn't know why the witch laughed. It was the least funny thing in the world, falling in love. It was like dying, like burning, only you lit the match yourself and kept a smile on the whole time.

When Clara found Malcolm in the fire, she turned to throw one last look at the witch, the Mistress. The woman had three fingers pointed their way, her hands hooked to look like a wolf's mouth. A blessing? A curse? Clara couldn't be sure. The smoke took away everything, and then the deepest part of sleep took her, too, suffocating and dark and full of nothing.

 

Clara woke up the next morning barely rested and with the taste of ash on her mouth. Malcolm, to her shock, was barely moving. Breathing, yes, but the end of his nose had gone noticeably redder, his skin clammier and much more pale than it was the night before.

When he finally woke up each of his breaths were punctured by deep, wet coughs that rattled in his chest, making him lean forward and fold up against his legs.

"Malcolm— _Malcolm_!" Clara took his shoulder in hand and gave it a harsh shove, pushing him from his side onto his back.

"Stop fucking _shouting_ ," he grumbled.

Ignoring Malcolm's mutterings, Clara crawled out of her bed and picked at the clothes strewn around her floor. She crossed over to where she'd left her mobile on the nearby dresser, and she turned to Malcolm and held a finger to her lips, demanding his silence.

"Please hold all further bollocking until I'm off the phone," she said, pressing it to her ear and waiting for the call to patch through.

It answered on the eleventh ring.

"Clara! To what do I owe this enormously unexpected pleasure so early on a weekend day?"

Clara kept her eyes on Malcolm's face, watching the way his eyes narrowed at the faint tinny sound of another man's voice breaking the silence in the room. She smiled, strangely enjoying the look of suspicion in his gaze, and the fact that she and she alone could take it away. She thought of the witch in her dream, of the fire and the wolf and the raven screaming.

“ _Don't need a sword to get the job done when you've got a heart full of blood and enough kindness inside to be cruel.”_

"Hello, Doctor," Clara said, reaching out to stroke Malcolm's hair. "You're not busy, are you? Because I've got just a little favour to ask."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I participated in NaNoWriMo this year, and spent the past month or so finishing that and going through two drafts. Bit exhausting, to say the least. So here's an almost 10k word update to tide you over!

**Chapter Five**  
  


The trip to her ex-boyfriend's office took less time and energy than Clara expected. Even the preparation for the trip was an almost painless event, disrupted by Malcolm's quiet complaints, and Clara's own miserable thoughts.

Anxiety wasn't exactly uncommon, given the occasion, but it only made the situation even more precarious. A sick boyfriend was bad enough, but a sick boyfriend on the way to meet a previous boyfriend? That was a recipe for racked nerves and knotted tummies.

“We're not going very far away,” she said, avoiding giving as true an answer as she could without giving in to an outright lie. “There's a friend a mine, a doctor, he's got an office just a couple minutes away. He said he can take a look at you real quick as long as we get there before the hour's up."

"D'you make it a habit of collecting friends that owe you medical favours?" Malcolm grumbled.

Clara turned to her closet to get dressed, keeping her back to Malcolm so he wouldn't see her face. "It's his fault that he owes me."

"Why?"

"Because I've sworn to keep a terrible dark secret of his until I'm deep in my grave with the worms," Clara said, her expression as rigid as her tone.

Malcolm was the first to break the poker face charade. "Right, not my business. Bit personal, I expect." He pushed his hands into his pockets and studied Clara. "What's his name? I can ask that, yeah?"

"John Smith."

Malcolm snorted.

"Whatever joke you're thinking about his name, will not be new, trust me. You're too late," Clara said, yanking a dress off a wire hanger and holding it against herself to test the look. "I've heard them, he's heard them—they're old."

"Have you mentioned him before?" Malcolm wondered, watching Clara get dressed with subdued appreciation. "Sounds familiar. Which should be fucking impossible, considering how unremarkable that name is."

"No, I have not.” Clara turned away from her closet and pulled the end of her dress down over her hips. She made sure to keep her eyes away from Malcolm's face as she half tugged, half shoved him out of her room and into the hall.

For one awful second, as they passed from the dark hall into the sunlit front rooms, Clara was reminded of how she'd gone about drawing up her plan to drop by Number Ten. She had thought that through more thoroughly than this adventure, to be sure. A whole twenty minutes' more time had been devoted to the first, whereas taking Malcolm to see John had been the product of ten seconds of thought: Malcolm was sick, he needed a doctor, and Clara knew one.

However, there was one point that stood out to Clara as a saving grace this time around, a somewhat mercenary and cold fact that brought a strange, steel-chilling comfort each time she thought about it. John owed Clara a debt he could quite literally never repay, and she wasn't going to pass this opportunity up for anything.

Stopping by her kitchen long enough to retrieve her coat from where she'd thrown it across the little table, Clara patted the pockets to check for her keys. Nodding in relief at the little clinking metal sound, she then turned to the doorway, moving away from the pale light of morning. Malcolm was watching her.

"What?" she asked, pulling her hair out from under the collar of the coat and brushing it over her shoulders.

"I thought you said he was a nurse," Malcolm said after a pause. "A nurse who moved off to New York, yeah? What's his name, Rowan?"

"No, you're thinking of Rory," Clara corrected, surprised that Malcolm would remember a name she mentioned all of once, long enough ago that even she couldn't remember. "He's the one that married Amy. Remember her?”

“No”

“Well you damn well ought to, she's Scottish. I showed you pictures from their wedding, they're up on the wall in the hall," she said, gesturing towards that end of her flat.

That seemed to make something click. "Right, of course. The mouse and the model," Malcolm said, nodding as the thoughts came together. "Still haven't met them, you know. Sort of hard to keep track of a fucking name without a face to apply along with it."

"I just said I showed you the pictures," Clara pointed out.

"Pictures are a bit different from an actual in the flesh appearance, sweetheart."

"Now you're just trying to be difficult," she muttered, but she couldn't quite ignore the look of impish glee that moved across Malcolm's face. Clara didn't know why she enjoyed this back and forth banter as much as she did. Probably because it gave her a chance to test out the muscle of her own argumentative skills without actually requiring the heat and fury of a genuine confrontation.

No other relationship had quite the same thing for her before, either platonic or romantic. _John just wasn't the type, and Amy and Rory were... Amy and Rory._

After being introduced into Clara's life through a series of school projects and pranks, for which all three of them were punished (poor Rory being the only innocent one among them), Amy and Rory had grown closer to Clara's heart than her own blood. It felt different from all the other friendships Clara had made and subsequently lost over the years. She was always losing things, but not these two. Amy and Rory endured, they survived.

Looking back, Clara knew without a doubt that they helped make the whole arduous process of growing up that much more bearable. Some days Clara thought she got through to her twenties only because of their help as pillars of support and confidence, pushing her when she needed to be pushed, holding her steady when she felt ready to crumble.

_I owe them more than I can ever pay back. They gave me so much—and so did John for a while._

Clara put forth a massive effort to keep her face from cracking under the strain of that particular realisation.

"Are you still not talking to them?" Malcolm asked, sensing the tenor of Clara's thoughts.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Clara pushed passed Malcolm into the hall, leading him towards the front door. "They're the ones who aren't talking to me," she muttered, waiting until Malcolm joined her in the hall outside her flat. "I've done everything but show up in New York and wait for them outside their building. And I really don't want it to come down to that. Seems a touch desperate, even for old friends."

Malcolm could tell something was bothering her, just as much as he could tell that there was an entire hidden field of thought she was keeping buried all to herself. What he didn't know was how to gently coax the information out of her, so severely was his mind addled and weary with sickness.

Clara offered him a quick smile and reached out to adjust the lapel of his coat, running her fingers down the front in a little pat. "Ready to go?" she asked. It was a mere formality and they both knew it. They were already leaving regardless of what Malcolm had to say about it. Her tone as well as her stern look suggested this.

Malcolm sneezed against the sleeve of his coat, swearing in between a fresh wave of coughs.

"I'll take that as my answer," Clara said, careful to loop her arm around his other sleeve.

  
  


Malcolm's surly temper quickly gave way to bitterness as they arrived at John's office. A woman with wild, curly blonde hair left the waiting room just as they were walking in, and though he thanked her for holding the door to let both of them pass, Malcolm's words were quickly bitten back with a sharp snap of his jaw. He looked about as awful as Clara felt, and this knowledge made her guilt rise up from its recently buried depths, twisting her stomach into a new knot.

Clara left Malcolm to seethe near a fake potted plant as she approached the receptionist. "Hello, my name's Clara Oswald," she sang out, resting one arm on the sill that separated her side of the room from the professional edge. "I called just a few minutes ago to speak with Dr. Smith. I think he managed to wedge my friend in for a quick appointment?"

The dark-haired, brown eyed receptionist listened to all this with a bored expression, clearly in dire need of more caffeine or a better night's rest. "You spoke with the doctor directly, then?" she asked, snapping her gum.

Clara nodded. "That I did, yes," she said, taking note of the nametag on the woman's chest. _Patty._

"Alright, I'll get him," Patty said with a little sigh. She pushed herself back from the counter with impressive quickness before disappearing further down the hall and out of Clara's sight.

Clara watched her go. Clearly she was happy to brush the responsibility of this task onto someone else, but Clara didn't have the energy to waste on begrudging her for it. _Whatever gets this day moving along so Malcolm can get back to bed and rest is fine by me. Well, almost fine._ At this thought, Clara turned to look at Malcolm. Her had folded his arms across his chest and hunched up his shoulders, all but pouting in the chair. Once again she was put in mind of an angry owl, or a rather subdued, frustrated lizard.

Once she caught his eye, Clara smiled. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like the last stain scraped off a fucking bed pan," Malcolm snapped.

"You'll feel better soon, okay? Promise," Clara said, her heart swelling with sympathy as she watched Malcolm dissolve into another fit of coughs. "At least you can use this as a good excuse to take a day or two off from work, yeah? Give the office life a break, just for a few hours."

Malcolm stared at Clara with open disbelief, holding one hand against his mouth as his coughs faded. "That's not how it works, Clara," he said, shaking his head.

 _That is exactly how it's going to work._ "We don't have to talk about it now," she cut in, holding up a hand and using the other to scratch at the back of her head. "And we definitely don't have to talk about it here."

Though he looked like he wanted to say quite a bit on the subject, another attack of coughs and sneezes prevented Malcolm from saying anything more than another round of bitter snarls. He hushed up quickly enough when Clara handed him a box of tissues and gave his shoulder a warm, supportive pat before she took a seat next to him.

While her mind was on the subject, Clara couldn't deny that another benefit from dragging Malcolm off to the doctor's was for the hope that he would finally get a chance to spend this rare day off as they were intended to be spent: relaxed under blankets, with nothing to do but nothing itself. Malcolm's work ethic was always ramped up to eleven, and while Clara only recently understood _why_ he had to be this way, she also wasn't going to stand by while he made himself into a husk for the sake of a job.

 _Or more of a husk than he already is,_ she corrected. _I wonder what he's eating—besides coffee, shortbread, tangerines, and the spinal fluid of accident-prone ministers?_ Clara wondered, stroking Malcolm's back as he suppressed a long, rattling cough that made his shoulders shake. _Does he neglect himself on purpose? Or does he not even notice?_

A familiar face peeked in from the open door that separated the waiting room from the back end of the office. John peered around the room, his bright, pale eyes landing on Clara just as a smile burst across his face.

"Hello, Clara," he said, pushing the door open wider. "Nice to see you again."

"Hello, Doctor," Clara said. She looked John over curiously, wanting to see how the past year of separation had changed him. His dark brown hair was brushed back from his forehead in his customary little sweep, and his idea of professional dress still included a bow tie and braces, both of which made Clara smile despite herself.

"Oh call me John; don't be so formal," he mused, walking into the room and coming to a stop a few paces back from where Clara and Malcolm sat. "What's a title between old friends?"

"I think I'd rather stick with Doctor," Clara said, her hands pressing down tighter on Malcolm's arm and back as he shivered hard enough to knock his teeth together.

John looked at the arm Clara had wrapped around Malcolm's back as well as the hand she had resting on his shoulder, taking in this wordless expression of intimacy. "Right, of course. Sorry," John said, laughing uneasily. "You and your er, friend can come right this way."

Nudging Malcolm to his feet, Clara gave his arm a squeeze and kept her eyes focused on John. They all walked through the door and down the narrow hall to one of the first examination rooms. Clara didn't notice that Malcolm was likewise focused on John until they were all safely inside the room.

"Smith, was it? Dr. Smith?" Malcolm asked.

"That would be me, yes," John said, smiling at Malcolm and getting a full-faced scowl in return. John didn't flinch under this treatment. "And I think Clara mentioned on the phone that your name was Tucker, first name Malcolm?"

Only Clara nodded. Malcolm didn't seem like he wanted to move a single muscle. She gave him a little shove towards the table covered in crinkling white tissue paper, noticing that he was starting to sway on his feet.

"Let's get a few preliminary questions cleared up straight away, yeah?" Malcolm said, letting Clara guide him to the table and shoving the shredded pieces of tissue into his pocket. He clapped his hands together with a loud bark of skin and bone, holding them together with a tight, white-knuckled grasp. "I don't drink as often as I ought, nor do I smoke with any degree of tumour-birthing regularity. I spend most of my time at my job, which has ball-shatteringly high levels of stress so yes, I would say that my life is frequently stressful. I would also say that I spend most of my days existing in a state of near hysterical panic. I eat what I can when I can get it, and how I get my exercise is another personal matter entirely," he finished, throwing a quick look over to Clara.

Malcolm said all this in a rush, his voice as pleasant as he could make it be with the dripping nose and wet cough building up again in his throat.

Clara stared at him, her eyebrows darting up high on her forehead. "That might just be one of the longest, swear-free statements I've ever heard you say.” Although she would, of course, have to cheerfully beat him to death later on for the last part of his remark.

"Wanted to keep it a bit clean for your young friend here," Malcolm said, mirroring Clara's crooked smile to the best of his ability before another round of coughs took it away.

John soon began to fidget on the spot, turning around in a quick twirl until he found a little stool to drag over and sit on with a quick plop. "So what I'm hearing is you've got one hell of a life nipping at your heels, and it all seems to have bound together and climbed up to bite you in other, er, places," he said, smiling cheerily at Malcolm, who couldn't look less happy to play along. "That would be the back story. Now what's the driving action, eh? What specifically brought you here today?"

As Clara looked back and forth between John and Malcolm, she was strongly reminded of a tiny puppy yipping and darting around a larger, weary mastiff. "He's been running a fever all weekend," Clara said, gesturing to Malcolm. "He's also had some pretty severe cold-like symptoms for a few days now. Coughing, runny nose, watery eyes, the works. Wouldn't have thought much of it, except for the whole fever and chills part."

"Thanks for chiming in, Mummy dear," Malcolm scoffed.

Clara hit his leg with the back of her hand in a harsh swot. "Don't ever call me that again. I'm here to help, not to be a joke, Malcolm. Got it?"

Malcolm said nothing. He turned his hand over and held it out for Clara to take. When she did, he folded his fingers over, closing almost her entire hand in his warm grasp.

Pushing himself to his feet with a sudden start, John spun on his heel and reached for a few supplies on the counter next to the metal sink. He began to tap the pockets of his coat, looking momentarily panicked.

"Alright, well, I'll need to get a few standard measures done before I say for sure what I think it is," he said, though he seemed to be talking to himself. "There's the throat swabs and nasal washes I'll have to get out of the way to help get _you_ on your way again. All in all a bit harmless, eh? Except for that lung you're coughing up all over your lady friend," John finished, frowning as Malcolm was racked with another spasm.

Once the coughing cleared off, Malcolm straightened up and tried out a long breath through his teeth. He was still holding onto Clara's hand, still seeking her support and strength, but now he was giving the doctor a look that felt a bit too much like a wordless challenge for Clara's comfort.

Clara stood up. "I'll wait outside," she announced, not looking at either Malcolm or John. Her heart was starting to stutter in an unexpectedly rapid pace, and she pulled her hand back from Malcolm's before he could notice that she was starting to shake.

Without waiting to hear what either man might say to her disappearance, Clara turned and strode out of the door, heading back down the hall towards the waiting room. She stopped a few paces away from the door and turned slowly on her heel and headed back the way she came, her thoughts growing into a boil.

Up until the moment she left the room Clara would have gladly said that of the three of them, John was by far the most nervous. It was either Clara's reserved, almost icy distance or the simple imposing presence of Malcolm that set her former boyfriend on edge, but she couldn't exactly blame him for reacting that way. Nor could she feel satisfied by it either.

 _That_ is _what I was hoping would happen._ _Besides trying to get professional look at one of the many problems Malcolm has, I did also want to come down here and show off the new one to the old one just a tiny bit. Go on, admit it._

Clara thought this over as she turned at the end of the hall and went back up towards the front, near the receptionist's alcove. She heard Malcolm and John's voices mingle together and leak out from the edges of the door as she passed their room, but it was the unmistakable sound of their laughter that made her stop. When it faded she moved on again, completing another lap of her hallway pace _._

 _It would just be my luck for them to get on like old mates, wouldn't it?_ Clara let out a long sigh to help keep the laughter trapped inside her chest, chewing down hard on her lip. She had learned her lesson from the laughing fit at Number Ten yesterday; she wouldn't allow herself to repeat that embarrassing hysterical process in her ex-boyfriend's clinic.

Clara's face became a harsh, stern mask as she paced up and down the hall in a slow tread, her lips pressing into a tight line of disapproval that she usually saved for the worst behaving students in class. She wasn't entirely without sympathy for John and the obvious unease that must have been bothering him ever since she'd asked him to take a look at Malcolm, but she also had to be fair to herself.

It wasn't until the door to the examination room opened and all her anxious thoughts ground to a harsh, short stop did Clara realise that she might have been dead wrong about John being the nervous one. No, that unhappy burden seemed to rest entirely on her own shoulders.

"Come back in, Clara," John said. "The worst of it's over, isn't that right, Mr. Tucker?"

Clara stepped across the doorway and came to a stop an arm's length away from where Malcolm sat, once again reminded of the awful way her plan had fallen apart in Number Ten. Crossing the threshold back into the examination room had felt as final and isolating as stepping into Malcolm's office behind Sam.

Clasping her hands, Clara brushed her fears into a dark, well-used corner of her brain marked _Ignore For God's Sake,_ and took a breath. "So, Doctor. What's the word?" she asked, looking at John.

"The word is influenza," John said, looking far too chipper to have delivered such news. He cast a bashful look over at Malcolm, who had fallen into a blank-faced, flat-mouthed glare, before turning his attention back to Clara. "It's... It's the flu, sorry. Your boyfriend should take it easy for the rest of the week. Might take some convincing on your part, Clara, so best of luck with that." John nodded at her, succinct and slow. "He seems a bit moody," he added in a stage whisper.

"Right, I thought as much," Clara said, and then his words hit her, making her do a double take. Her eyes seemed to grow three times too large for her face as she looked at John closely, her throat closing over as if a fist had cinched around it. "Wait, my what?"

"Your boyfriend," John repeated, his smile fading around the edges until it became almost mournful. He turned to Malcolm and said, "I agree with you on this one, mate, that word doesn't fit at all."

"See?" Malcolm said, gesturing with an open, flat hand to John and turning to peer at Clara. He cleared his throat, fighting back another cough. "Even Dr. Infant agrees."

"It's Smith," John corrected. "But yes, as far as what Mr. Tucker's got, we're looking at the flu. He should be perfectly fine - once it's out of his system, of course," he added quickly, shaking his head and waving his hands as if to scatter his words like smoke in a breeze. "Til then get plenty of rest, drink lots of clear fluids—I hear good things about that water, so you might want to put down the coffee for most of the week—and try curling up under a nice thick blanket. Or twelve. Tartan should work wonders in your case, Mr. Tucker."

"Expert advice, Dr. Toddler," Malcolm said, nodding as if he had been told a rather sage collection of words. "Truly invaluable, really."

 _What the hell is going on?_ Clara wondered, staring between the two men. Had Malcolm told John about their relationship, or had John been the one to ask? She wasn't sure which was more astonishing: Malcolm volunteering that information himself or John daring to ask about it flat out.

"Again, the name's Smith," John said. "And you're very welcome." He plucked at his braces and turned to Clara on the heel of his shoes, snapping the toes down hard on the tiled floor. Malcolm scowled at this bit of unnecessary charm and cheer. "And now would be the time for me to ask if you've had a flu shot recently. So... I'm asking. Have you?"

"I'm all set, actually," she said, her voice rising a few pitches higher from the strain on her throat. Malcolm noticed this right away; Clara could feel his eyes darting all over her in a quick, quizzical gaze. It didn't help calm her down. She continued, keeping her eyes on John's curious face. "They were on us about getting shots for weeks down at Coal Hill, so I should be all right," she said.

"Oh yes, of course, that's right," John said, nodding a little as he reflected. "You're a teacher now, eh? Sarah would be happy to know that."

"And how _is_ Sarah Jane?" Clara asked. "You don't actually call her Sarah to her face, do you? You know she hates it when people drop the rest of her name."

John shrugged, tucking his fingers into his pockets. "Not for me," he said, smiling. "I suppose that's nephew privileges, though. She's doing well. I'll tell her you said hello."

Clara forced herself to keep her eyes pinned to the expression, surprised but not the least bit miserable to find that his smile no longer had any power over her. Her heart used to crack at that sad, sweet smile. Now it barely picked up half a beat. "Or you could just tell her to call," she pointed out. "I wouldn't mind hearing from her again. We've got a lot to catch up on."

"I will absolutely let her know about you, yes," John said. "Don't you worry about that."

Malcolm stood up, both heels dropping down onto the tiled floor with a low thud.

"We should be going now," Clara said, smiling quickly at John. "He really should rest, especially if he wants to be back on his feet by the end of the week."

"I'm on my feet now," Malcolm pointed out.

Clara just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she shooed Malcolm out of the room, giving his back a mix between a shove and a tender pat. "You know damn well what I meant," she said, surprised to see him turn to show her a rare grin as he walked out into the hall.

And just like that, John and Clara were alone in the room. He studied her with a pair of once loved eyes, his smile locked into place.

"You went a little older this time, yeah?" he asked, visibly relaxing when he heard Clara's amused tut. "Your friend out there worded it best, you went from nursery robbing to crypt keeping."

Clara scowled. "He didn't actually say that, did he?"

"'Fraid so. That's not something I could think of on my own—wouldn't want to. Not exactly flattering, is it?"

"That's Malcolm for you: Honest and true and just a bit grumpy," Clara said. Her smile confused John, as did the way her stare trailed off to settle on an image only her mind could see. The sight made her smile deepen, and lit up her eyes like a match finding a hungry candle wick.

"Is he nice at least?" John asked.

"You were nice once, John. But nice isn't everything, is it? It's not enough in the end."

"That's fair," John said.

"No, it's not. But it's true."

John nodded, keeping silent.

When she stepped forward to give John one last hug, Clara knew that it was more final than any spoken goodbye between them had ever been. It was a quick and short embrace, only done for the sake of breaking off the last tie that lingered, a way to sever that bloodless little tether that lacked any of the heart that once flowed between them.

Clara was out of the room and in the hall in a matter of seconds. She didn't look back, not once.

  
  


Clara drove back to her flat and prepared for the first relaxing Sunday that Malcolm had since his undergraduate years. Loath though she was to consider herself anything close to a nurse, Clara had to admit that she did enjoy the care-giving role. It was alarmingly enjoyable to be so obviously needed. Duty of care and all that.

Malcolm relied on her with such a raw honesty that would have made her blush if she stopped to think about it long enough. He accepted everything from mugs of tea to sympathetic little pats on the head with the same weak, grateful smile. If he had to actually be sick, which wasn't often but it still happened enough that it made Clara's heart clench with every sputtering cough and foul, angry retch that rang out from behind the closed bathroom door, he even made sure to whisper his gratitude in a steady, breathless pant.

For the next few hours, Malcolm was a mess. There was no other way to put it, and the harsh truth of this was lessened only by how deeply Malcolm's need for Clara could transform itself into a strange display of grateful tenderness. He would lean heavily on Clara's small shoulder each time she helped him up off the bathroom floor and back into her bedroom, ignoring his sharp protests that he would contaminate the place. And yet no matter how often he griped about bringing his miserable plague into her bed Malcolm would always sink happily into the blankets and pillows, twisting over onto his side and curling up into a knobby little ball of bent arms and legs.

"Thank you," he muttered once, reaching out blindly for her hand. She offered it to him, surprised at how much strength he still had left to spare when the rest of him looked so hollow and brutally gutted.

"Anytime," she said.

Clara stayed crouched at his side until Malcolm drifted off into an uneasy sleep, muttering her name as she pushed herself to her feet and crept quietly out of the room. He might have been dreaming about her, but Clara wasn't sure if Malcolm was the sort of man who had dreams anymore.

  
  


Later that night, at about two hours to midnight, Malcolm woke up with a gasp, his eyes flying open. Clara watched as Malcolm turned onto his other side to face her. He peered wildly into her face as if he hadn't just spent the last several hours half dead with exhaustion.

Malcolm reached out to cover one of her hands with his, folding his fingers around hers and hiding them in his warm, clammy grasp. "Clara?" he asked, his voice a rasp.

"Are you all right, Malcolm?"

"Why did John owe you a favour?" he asked. It was the same question he posed to her that morning, only now he seemed so intent on an answer that Clara wasn't sure she had it in her to deny him one. Especially not after what she'd done yesterday down at Number Ten. Even so, she wasn't ready. Not yet.

Clara's mouth twitched, not sure if it wanted to be a frown or a smirk. "Stopped with the nicknames, have you?" she said.

Malcolm waited, watching her.

Shifting her eyes to Malcolm's cheek, noting the way half of his expression was lit up by a thick bar of silvery moonlight while the rest of him remained encased in shadow, Clara lined up her thoughts as best she could. "He owed me for the whole relationship, if you want the horrible truth," she said, her voice shifting down into a whisper. "He owed me for every single tear and kiss and every single wasted time I let him touch me."

Malcolm edged closer to her in the bed, still holding tightly onto her hand. Again he waited for Clara to find the words.

Clara closed her eyes. It was easier to bare her heart when she didn't have to look into the eyes of the person witnessing such a tender, vulgar display. "We didn't exactly end as much as we sort of... fell apart. But at least it was a spectacular finish. Proper embarrassing, but it was still impressively awful. Can't deny that."

A bird began to sing, mistaking the moon and the streetlamps for the light of day. Clara listened to its call, trying to place it. _A nightingale. It must be._

"Is this the same John who fucked off for nearly a month because he missed a connecting flight?" Malcolm asked.

Clara opened her eyes and saw that he had shifted his gaze into the moonlight over her shoulder, his eyes clouding over with the effort it took to force every thought through his sluggish, tired mind.

"Same lad who hitched it all the way back to London from Finland, yes?" Malcolm added.

Clara nodded. "Yeah, that's John. Surprised you remember. I didn't call him by name when I told you."

"You mentioned that a once dear friend had gone and done a terribly stupid thing that left you extremely unhappy."

"Yeah? Wonder what the hell I brought that up for."

"We may have had some white zinfandel," Malcolm said. "And I may have asked when was the last time you'd ever felt scared."

They faded into silence, both of them taking turns look at and away from each other. Malcolm squeezed Clara's hand as the nightingale picked up another round of its song.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Do you honestly want to know?"

"Yes," he said.

Clara shut her eyes again, but the gentle pressure of Malcolm's hand and the warmth of his presence made her dare to open her eyes and look at him when she spoke again. "It's nothing special. Not exactly original either," she said.

"You're stalling," he pointed out.

"I'm prefacing," Clara argued. "There's a difference."

"I know diversion tactics when I hear them," Malcolm said. "It is sort of my job to create them."

Clara laughed. She couldn't deny that. "Look it's... it's silly. Really, it is. And I know by drawing it out like this I've sort of built it up to be more important than it actually is, and I'd be sorry for that if I thought it'd be worth an apology. But it's not."

"Clara—"

"I found him with someone else," she said, moving her eyes away from his at the last second. Clara didn't want to see the flash of pity that might appear there. Clearing her throat, Clara chanced a glance over at Malcolm's eyes and found nothing but muted patience waiting for her there. She could have kissed him if he hadn't started to cough again, clamping his thin limps shut to trap each rattling hack in. Clara waited until he was finished, then she started to speak again.

"I found him with someone else and then I found out that, according to her, _I_ was the someone else," she said, laughing. "Would have picked up on that sooner if he and I hadn't gone off through Europe for half a year, and if Amy hadn't.... if I didn't have to spend a few months helping out her and Rory."

Clara paused, thinking back to that lonely, lost time of her life just after college. "Do you know that John told this other woman the reason he had to leave her behind was because he was studying abroad? _Studying abroad._ Can you imagine falling for that?"

"What made you go with him? Did you... elope or something?" Malcolm wondered.

Clara shook her head fast. "No, I'd never. Not... Not with John. He's not the marrying kind. And I went because... Well, we just liked to travel. He and I were always running to one place or another, but we never ended up where we meant to be half the time." She smiled, not quite understanding why. Nor could she understand why her eyes were starting to burn with traitor tears.

"Trying to find your way in a city or even a country you've never been in before, living on a shoe-string budget—it was all such a rush, you know? Strange and awful and terrifying, especially when you had to find a safe place to sleep for the night. But all that panic still wound up as something wonderful, like a dream. I got a chance to live someone else's life with someone I loved. Who wouldn't take up a chance like that if they got a shot at it?"

Malcolm said nothing.

"Then Amy had her... accident," Clara said, rephrasing it at the last second to preserve her friend's privacy. They may not have spoken to each other since the break up with John, but Clara still respected Amy and Rory's loss too much to let it out without full and proper reverence to what had been lost.

"Rory got in touch with us just outside of... Florence, I think it was. We were about six months in to the holiday when he told us the news. He didn't ask us to come back, but I could hear it in his voice - god, I'll never forget that awful, hollow croak. Rory needed us. They both needed us." Clara paused and took a breath. "The four of us used to be like a family growing up. We had to be, I mean. Our actual family always seemed to fall just a bit short when we needed them the most."

Clara cleared her throat and drew back the tears. She was surprised to find the sudden warm on her cheek was not from the tears that she had failed to keep back but from Malcolm's hand cupping her face. He stroked the trail of Clara's tears away with his fingertips, handling her as if she were a small pane of cracked glass.

"I told John we had to go back home right away and help them. It was strange how hard I had to work to convince him. I didn't realise it at first. Probably didn't want to notice it, but I could see some hint of it in his eyes. It showed up right after I told him what happened to Amy, how Rory had broken down when he called. It was right there in front of me like a slap to the face. That one little second of hesitation."

Clara frowned as she remembered. "That wasn't like him. Well it was and it wasn't. He wasn't... John's not a bad man, Malcolm. Have you got that? He's just a bit of a coward when it came to problems without a clear and simple solution."

"You do realise that applies to just about every fucking thing in life," Malcolm said, chiming in almost despite himself.

"Yeah, I guess so," Clara agreed, surprised that she found not one shred of reluctance inside her.

"And he became a _doctor_ , yeah? An actual practising man of medicine?" Malcolm looked understandably horrified at the prospect.

Clara shrugged. "You'll notice he didn't go into psychology," she pointed out. "A physician can still treat problems he can't cure. As long as it's a problem he can literally look at square in the face, John can handle almost anything. It's all that secret, buried emotional stuff he has a slight fault with. Makes him wobble a bit."

"There's a tremendous difference between a wobble and a fucking nosedive down into neglect," Malcolm pointed out.

Clara smiled as she met Malcolm's eyes, grateful that he hadn't moved his hand away from her face despite her lack of tears. "Where did I leave off? Florence?"

He nodded.

"Well after we got back I spent most of my time at Amy and Rory's, helping out where I could. Cleaning, cooking, going around doing a bit of shopping. Housekeeping stuff, you know. Rory couldn't take much time off, and Amy—well, Amy couldn't be alone. Not then," she said, her voice cracking. "I practically lived with them for three months. I think even then I could tell that something was wrong, that something changed. It was like I was running away by not actually going anywhere. I probably would have noticed John's other woman sooner if I'd been a bit braver myself."

“When did that happen?” Malcolm asked, his voice like low and heavy.

The next breath Clara took was long and deep, making her chest expand and her shoulders dart up almost to her ears, like a wince or a way to ward off some terrible inward blow. Malcolm ran his thumb along her cheek again, cupping his fingers around her chin to give it a reassuring squeeze.

"One day I came around to John's flat to surprise him. He hadn't been answering any of our calls - not that that was unusual, but something about it felt different this time. Can't say what it was. Maybe I'm just making it up to make myself feel better," she laughed. "Well, off I went, and another woman answered the door. An older woman. Said her name was Tasha," Clara added with a bitter snort, remembering what John had said to her before she left.

"The best part was when John got home and saw us both sitting on the couch ready to rip him apart," Clara said, her laughter fading off into something like a sob. "I left before she could really pick up steam and start shouting loud enough to wake up everyone in the building. It didn't feel like my fight anymore. None of it did. Didn't seem worth it, really."

Clara knew she was skipping over the awful agony that followed from that day forward for almost a full year. She knew that she was almost surgically omitting the way her heart felt split and thrown out across an impossibly wide distance, with just a few stubborn strings still tethered in between either wedge, bringing with them throes of pain that came equipped with some of her once happiest memories. She didn't see the point in bringing any of that up here, now that she was lying in bed with Malcolm.

"But that's all in the past," Clara said, nodding. The words were more for herself than they were for him. "It's all water under a burnt bridge, or something like that. And now he's done that favour _,_ so it's not likely I'll ever have to see him again. I'm almost looking forward to that."

"To what?" Malcolm asked. "To not seeing him?"

"Yeah, exactly. I'm anticipating his absence."

Malcolm stared at her for a long while. "Clara, I'm not sure that makes any fucking sense," he said. Clearly his silence had been spent worrying over the statement in a fruitless attempt to wring some kind of sanity from it.

"I don't know if it does either," she admitted.

The nightingale had long stopped singing by the time Malcolm spoke again. Clara was almost certain he'd fallen asleep, so when his voice came from the dark she couldn't help but be surprised.

"Do you ever miss it?" he asked, his voice low and soft, like a murmur following a kiss. Malcolm's face was fully in shadow now, the moon having moved off to the lower end of the bed, revealing only the bump of their bodies beneath her blankets.

"Miss what?" Clara asked.

"Travelling like that. Going wherever you like with him."

Clara thought about this carefully. "Sometimes," she admitted. "Not always—not as much as I used to. Sometimes it feels like it's out of my system, like I scratched that itch and got it all out of the way early on. But every now and then there's a little pang. Just a very little one though," she added, speaking fast. "Besides, I've got my own life and roots here now. I've got a job. I've got a _boyfriend—_ even if he takes offence to the word."

"It's not offence," Malcolm said. Clara could almost see him rolling his eyes in the dark and she couldn't help but giggle. "And look even your old pal chin boy agreed that it sounded awful."

"You're still on that, I see," Clara said, shaking her head. Her hair crinkled against the pillow, scratching her cheek.

"I'll get around to getting over it eventually," Malcolm said. "Let us complain a bit 'til then, it's refreshing."

"It's annoying," Clara said. "How are you ever going to explain me to your mum and sister if you don't feel comfortable calling us what we are?"

The silence that followed this question was a terrifying thing for Clara to endure. Fear punctured her bones and muscle, and suspicion shoved the iron wedge further until she could almost feel it digging into her back.

"Malcolm?" she asked, her voice strained.

"D'you know how that doctor said I should take it easy for the rest of the week?" Malcolm began.

"You didn't answer me," Clara pointed out, not wanting to be distracted.

"I'm getting there. The answer's like a little fucking maze for a rat, yeah? Gotta let it move around a bit before it gets to the end."

"So get to the end."

Malcolm moved his fingers into Clara's hair, stroking the strands and winding them around his fingertips. "How about we both take off for a couple days, right? Bit of a forced holiday. Just about the only good thing this fucking flu could end up doing for us. I can take you up to meet my mother, she's been asking about you again."

Clara knocked Malcolm's hand away from her face and out of her hair as she sat up with a start. She stared at him in the almost absolute darkness, her eyes feeling too wide for her face again, like they were about to pop. "Is this seriously the fever talking?" she asked.

Malcolm scoffed. "No, it's your boyfriend," he said. He was serious. Or at least he sounded as serious as a man could be with a clogged nose.

"Okay, so about half fever, half actually you. Got it." Clara settled back on her pillow before another thought made her jolt up again. "Hang on—you told your mum about me?"

"I did, yes," Malcolm said. "I told her all about the tiny sharp-tongued girlfriend from Blackpool ages ago. Right around the time Sam found out.”

Clara reached down for his face and squished it between her fingers, making him look like an angry puffer fish again. "Let me get this straight. You told your mother that you, a man well into his forties—" Malcolm squirmed at this, but Clara wouldn't let him speak, not yet, “—had a new _girlfriend_. And yet your heart all but stops dead if I try to turn that one around on you."

Malcolm reached up to force Clara's hand off his face just as he had done last night. Only this time he wove his fingers in between hers, placing them alongside her sharp, strained knuckles. He didn't say anything, accurately sensing that Clara hadn't quite finished yet.

"There's a precedence for behaviour like that, you know. Goes all the way back to Shakespeare," she said, eyeing him sharply as she shifted her position until she was on top of him. Settling down on his narrow hips, Clara pulled her hand off of Malcolm's face and created a little pillow with her hands on his chest.

Listening to the quick stutter of his heart and smiling as his arms immediately locked into place behind her back, Clara closed her eyes and finished her thought. "Queen Gertrude, when asked by Hamlet to describe her thoughts on the Player Queen, says one key, crucial phrase. Do you know what that was?"

"I fucking do not protest too fucking much," Malcolm grumbled—and then he broke off, realising that by making this claim he was, indeed, protesting once more.

Clara laughed, lifting her head up to give Malcolm's chin a quick kiss. "When can we go see her?" she asked. "Your mum, I mean."

Malcolm shrugged, his hands moving up and down Clara's back in a slow, lazy caress. "I was thinking later in the week, if you'd like," he said. His eyes slid shut as he spoke, and Clara could tell his exhaustion was catching up to him again. "Don't want to show up when I'm still a moving biohazard."

Lowering her head back down to his chest, Clara listened as Malcolm's heart slowed into a steady, soothing rhythm. "That'd be nice," she said, closing her eyes. "Sounds like a good plan, Malcolm."

He murmured indistinctly in response. The nightingale started to sing again, lulling them both into a heavy, dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the chapter waxes poetic on cupboards, fearsome smiles, and the dangers of needful love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend you listen to and loop "Flipside" by Lana Del Rey as you read this, since it was written with that song in mind.
> 
> I didn't expect to make my comeback from a half year hiatus with an unabashedly smutty chapter, but it didn't seem fair to just not post it. I think there's some plot in here. Character developing drama/angst. The usual. Happy TMI Tuesday! :D;;;?
> 
> This chapter's also ungodly long, so I hope that makes up for such an unforgivable wait!

**Chapter Six**

 

Clara knew that when Malcolm was trying to downplay its significance, he referred to the side room attached to his office as "just a cupboard." The counters, the sink, and occasional tray of slightly stale biscuits and wonky, tilting chairs that were often found within felt more like false-front furniture and accidental accessories than items with any inherent worth. The cupboard, like what it held, was nothing important, nothing that would be missed should they up and vanish one day.

In Clara's way of thinking, the side room was the closest Number Ten came to having a junk drawer. It was just a place for things that simply had no other place to go, but might be useful at a moment's notice—if anyone bothered to give it the time of thought.

The fact that the cupboard was attached to Malcolm's office was ever so slightly worrying if Clara let herself think about it long enough—which is usually what she did on a late night, with dark thoughts to bully her into dreams. Sometimes these thoughts reached such a dire, dreadful point that she couldn't help but _wish_ that Malcolm didn't make any unkind comparisons between the cupboard's proximity to himself and who he was as an actual, proper person _,_ the Malcolm barely buried beneath it all, and—

No. She was being silly. Worse than being silly, she was _worrying._ Worrying about a man almost twice her age, and brutally capable of looking after himself.

 _Relax and think._ Clara had been dating Malcolm for about four months by the time these late night fretting-fests started. It was a long enough time for her to get a good grasp of his personality beyond what he exhibited to the public view, and a long enough time to understand the danger involved in the marks he left on her heart.

The differences between them went deeper than the surface, an intricate weave-work of contrasting age and experience, but this only inspired more of an attraction. Clara knew that Malcolm, unlike herself, was far from a sensitive person. He was a highly observant person, which was just as bad as someone who felt too much. Feeling and seeing were close-kin methods of suffering. The heart tore itself to ribbons for the former, while the latter agonized silently, privately, in the buried cell of its own mind.

The more attuned Clara became to Malcolm, the easier it was for her heart to get caught up in more than just her rapidly increasing admiration. His moods were a tide to be stemmed, a storm to demand sit still, a dragon, gaping and raw, to command be silent and still. He was never cruel with her, never short-tempered, with a tongue only as sharp as wit demanded, but there were days where thunder hid behind his gaze and Clara found her own moods turning sour from sympathy.

Was that love, then? The first hint of it? What _was_ love, really, but a sickness shared at the core of two beings, gnawing, rodent-like, on the root of either heart?

One thing Clara learned from her brief visit to Malcolm's work was how ghastly it could truly be. It was a thankless, cheerless chore, rooting out the buried husks at work beneath politicians, and keeping them in one's constant company. The mind could really only handle so much of its own self-orchestrated strain before it demanded a sanctuary, however short-lived or risky. Like all things that mattered to the heart, there was a consequence, a flipside, something to discover in pure, trembling awe. Like the underside of a rock baring its scarred, crystal cavity, what Malcolm loved lay hidden in his heart, as precious as it was vulnerable.

 _And the same goes for me,_ Clara thought, pushing the heels of her hands over her eyes, as if she could force herself into sleep. _I love him, and it feels like it could kill me._

_She might as well get used to saying it, seeing as it only took a bloody breakdown for the pair of them to admit it out loud._

\---

That Malcolm also referred to the side room as a "fucking pantry" in the same tone often used to shower Clara with blush-inducing compliments suggested it really did mean quite a lot to him. That he was possessive of that hidden space and the time they shared in it was undeniable, and strangely thrilling. They were only just starting to make use of it—could it really mean so much after so short a time?

The short answer was yes.

Here's the longer answer.

\---

All Clara had to do to keep her miserable thoughts at bay was remind herself of the way Malcolm looked at her the instant any door closed, leaving them on the other side, hidden, alone, and together. His gaze was like a slow, tender ravishing, as if he were peeling back the layers of her casual indifference, then pulling back her buried distress, then unlacing the nervousness she hid beneath _that,_ until he found the very heart of her. Malcolm looked at Clara as if she were air and he was the drowning man struggling for the surface, eager to and open his lips to let in that desperate, fortifying gasp. He looked at her like he was in love.

It might have made Clara uncomfortable to know the man she had been dating for, technically, several weeks, was already starting to house a blatant, unspoken need for her if she didn't already feel that way about him. But even if Clara weren't allowing herself to finally admit that she was actually, properly, sincerely falling fast for this man, there was a real charge in knowing just how deeply inside his heart she already lay.

Malcolm wasn't a man prone to flourishing, poetic sentiments. Conversations with him were to the point, honest and only seldom sweet enough to make her heart ache. But that was fine. More than fine, that was what she _wanted_. That was all Clara wanted from any relationship: the clear, simple truth, no matter how brutal. It was the kind of truth Amy could give and Rory could deliver with tender, supportive sweetness. It was the kind of truth John struggled to deliver, the truth he preferred to pad to the point of making it lose all its impact.

Even if Malcolm couldn't always _say_ sincere, honest things as easily as he could swear, all it took was one look at his face to know exactly how Malcolm felt. He needed her like he _breathed_ her.

The look transformed his striking appearance into something so raw, so open and intense, that Clara couldn't help but adore him. There was something both haunted and handsome about Malcolm's face once she looked past the occasional hollows beneath his eyes and the pallor that showed despite his noble efforts to control it. Ever since she had first met, Clara had been struck at the thought that Malcolm's was a lively, active face, a whirlwind of thought portrayed with the slightest turns of expression. Animated and raw, a live, desperate thing. Scowls followed fast behind curious, quick glances, and smiles slipped off into crooked, wicked smirks that could set her heart racing if she weren't careful.

But why be careful? Why bother?

_Let go. You're in love._

Clara knew that to a less smitten gaze that some of Malcolm's features might work against him. His appearance was certainly more striking than it was conventionally dashing. There was the long nose—which he often brushed against her neck and behind her ear as preludes to the kisses he lavished over her skin. Not to mention the lean face that could so easily appear far too thin, almost frightfully skeletal if stress and not enough rest sank their teeth in to devour him. He was getting better at that now, with the home-cooked meals courtesy of his own kitchen. Clara knew that Malcolm's grins could be as alarming as his temper, and only those absolutely overzealous about dentistry would care much about all the fillings he had in his back teeth. And yet every thing that might render him plain or even a little ugly to another set of eyes made him all the more beloved in hers. He was genuine, human, and raw, like a nerve exposed to a scalpel—and he was _hers_.

The ultimate physical appeal Malcolm possessed lay in his eyes. Not for their colour, which always seemed to shift between the spectrum of greys to blues to pale, weathered green depending on the light, but for their power. Clara wondered just how many people really looked into Malcolm's eyes, really, truly looked and then felt the shadowed presence at work behind the gaze. His assistant Sam was pretty high on a rather short list of possibilities, but hers was just about the only name Clara had so far.  _Surely there's others. He_ must  _have friends. ... Or_ a _friend._

What little Clara knew about Sam, and what very few conversations that Clara had overheard during her brief, now scheduled visits to Malcolm's office, suggested that he and Sam were as friendly as professional sorts could be to one another. Their polite, cordial chatter and professional chemistry reminded Clara of a surgeon and an accompanying nurse: prompt, efficient, and just a little instinctive. Trust with real feeling but still pulling tight under restraints. She was grateful that Malcolm had someone like that in his life, particularly at his work, where actual support seemed so wanting, but that couldn't be  _all_  Malcolm had.There had to be someone else, a comrade-in-arms of a kind. Possibly Scottish as well. Someone to lead the charge when he needed to rest.

Or maybe Malcolm was just too tenacious, and too eager for control, with no comrade, no right hand, no nearby ally at all.

 _Except for me._ It was a thought that worried her more than it could ever flatter.

Malcolm's need for Clara didn't stay limited to long, steady looks. As if inspired by her disastrous visit to Number Ten, and the hilarity of the risk involved, Malcolm started inviting her down to his office during lunch breaks and weekends. A week technically never ended for Malcolm, and yet here he was, trying to invite her into that circuit of his endless spin.

She mentioned this to him once the invitation came up, prompting him to snort in a laugh.

"That doesn't mean we can't do a fucking lunch, yeah? Or a dinner?" he said, after listening to her explanation.

"A dinner. At your office."

"Well if you're feeling adventurous I could always fix up the fucking pantry for a nosh."

"You have a pantry?"

"It's more a cupboard with ambitious leg room, really."

"And you want me to see it?"

"You've already had a quick tour around the office. Seen the best, now time for the rest, yes?"

Clara had to laugh. "Yes," she said, hiding her laughter in a smile. "Yes, fine, Malcolm. "It was the first time a pick-up line had ever truly charmed her. It would be a waste to turn him down.

 ---

Malcolm's mood changed dramatically from their chat on the phone to her surreptitious arrival at the office. Sam helped her in again, making Clara feel like either the worst spy or the easiest liar testing a luck so threadbare it was bound to break before Clara could blink. The smile had barely time to grow on Clara's face between saying goodnight to Sam and stopping dead in Malcolm's doorway.

His face was thunderous, grim. After he let Clara into his office, he had swept imperiously back towards his desk with swift, long strides and had a seat. There he sat for a long awkward span of seconds, not moving, not looking at Clara at all.

_Still the storm to a whisper, now. Go on._

Clara shut the door with a sharp snap and continued across the room, undeterred. "Malcolm?"

He grunted. It sounded like a "what?"

Clara continued. "Have you ever seen someone look so cross, that it pulls their skin back so far that they're all skull and pointed eyebrows?" she asked, casting off her coat and scarf on the nearest chair. She perched on the armrest and looked at him, her own eyebrows raised. "Because that's how you look right now. And it's not a very nice welcome."

Malcolm said nothing to this. Something was clearly bothering him. Something always was, sure, but this was something new. He was keeping his anger inside.

 _That's new._ Clara studied Malcolm quickly from where she sat, folding her hands on her lap, denting her skirt down to press against her thighs. Malcolm sat half-slumped in his chair, which was different from the other Clara had seen. No doubt this one moved reliably in all its swivelling glory. His suit coat was off and slung over the back of the chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled in tight folds up past his elbows, freeing his arms. The muscles beneath his skin were strained, almost garrote-wire tense, and the hand that wasn't pressed against his face was lying in a tight fist on the desk.

Clara stared at it. His knuckles were strained, the pale blue veins coiling under the skin like snakes. He looked like he wanted to hit something. He looked like something had hit _him._

"So why bring me down here, all secret-like? I was told dinner. Then a nosh. Has it been downgraded to a sulk?"  Clara tilted her head slowly to the side as she smiled. _Laugh. Go on and laugh, Malcolm._ "Or is there a body we need to get rid of? Because I read this book once, yeah? It was about mistreated housewives who take up a corpse-disposal service in Tokyo. They just chuck out the limbs around the city with the morning's rubbish. Genius idea, until criminals got involved."

Still he said nothing. Malcolm kept his hand pressed to his mouth. His eyes were fixed squarely on the satsuma peels that decorated the desk in favour of files, folders, and notes. After a long, low gasp of air, his eyes darted up at last. Pinning Clara with his gaze, Malcolm's furious expression cleared at once, becoming a sort of bemused, blank slate.

"You were too ready with that," he said, his voice low. Eventually he smiled. "How long did you it that in mind?"

"Not long. Just a guess, really." Clara indulged in the sight of his smile, that fearsome grin. More fox-like than wolfish. It made his nose seem sharper, but she had never seen a more beautiful smile. It was honest, it was true. It was him. "So what's happened?"

"Hewitt," he said. The name slipped from his mouth without much thought, as if it were a poison resting on his tongue, eager to be spat out. The name rang no bells for Clara, and had nowhere near the impact on her as it clearly did on Malcolm. His eyes snapped shut, his head twisted, his mouth pulling up at the corner as he hissed, "No, not Hewitt. You don't fucking know him, forget it. I didn't say that name."

"Except you _did_ say it. I don't have to know him to know that he made you angry," Clara said, straightening her back. The little golden charm on her necklace flashed in the light, drawing Malcolm's eyes to her neck and chest. "And if I _did_ know him, I could always gently persuade him not to make you this cross again."

Malcolm's gaze flickered from her shoulders to her hands and made a quick, casual sweep of her legs. They were crossed. Clara could feel one of her heels slipping off the back of her foot; it dangled perilously close to the floor, in danger of a crash. "Gently?" he asked, his expression a perfect stamp of disbelief.

"Very gently," Clara said, flexing her foot so her shoe snapped back into place. "With a pillowcase full of satsumas swung round his head."

"Again, you're too ready with that." Malcolm watched with a slow growing smile as Clara's heel slipped on and off in a slow, steady bend. It was an idle, impulsive act on her part, one she knew called attention not to her platform pumps but to the bit of skin that flashed from the inside. It was a trick Clara had learned with a previous boyfriend years ago: get a man to think about her body by doing nothing more than a few casual gestures that were harmless in themselves, but suggestive to a keen pair of eyes. And Malcolm's eyes were certainly the keenest.

"I thought you were tired," he said.

"I was. That was the first sentence out of my mouth when I answered the phone tonight, remember? ' _Malcolm, I'm tired, what do you want?'_ "

He pointed at her clothes, flicking his finger up and down. "Then why all this?"

"It's a trial run," she said, flattening her hands against her ribs and straightening out the folds in her cardigan. "I was going to wear it tomorrow. Figured I'd give it a spin tonight. See how it fits, you know. Do you like it?"

"It's nice," he said at once, his mouth moving like a sharply shutting trap. "It... fits," he added, and there was a curious clip in his tone as he said it, followed by another quick dip of his gaze down to her legs again.

And that's when the penny dropped for Clara. It helped that Malcolm's gaze had finally settled on her own again, bringing with it the full force of whatever was inspiring that lazy smile.

Her heel snapped back up against her foot. "So who's Hewitt?" she asked, knowing full well the question would change the mood considerably.

And it did. There went his smile.

"A hack whose fucking brains are as thick as cum-custard," he snapped at once. Malcolm's hands tightened on the edge of the armrests, a convulsive, furious seizure that passed only after he saw Clara staring at his hands. "You'd need something less blunt than a sack full of satsumas if you want to put in more than a dent into his bulbous fucking head. Why not a shiv? Just– " he raised his hand, made a fist, and knocked it against the back of his head, popping his lips until they made a comical _thunk_. "–right in the fucking skull. What's it called? Trepanning?"

Clara blinked. The overt animosity for whoever this Hewitt man was told Clara that he was clearly connected to the press. Malcolm didn't throw the word _hack_ around lightly. It was reserved for a very specific sort of press-person, and she was only just starting to discover the type. Vicious and vain and shameless sour-faced bastards as clever as they were cunning, but not nearly enough to justify their over-swollen, tumescent pride. And yet there was another layer to Malcolm's anger, one she recognised before she could put it into words. It was a kind of seething bitterness that clearly said whoever this Hewitt man was, he'd offended Malcolm on a level that went beyond his already considerably easily offended professional sensibilities.

 _It was ugly and personal,_ Clara thought.  _Ugly, personal, and very recent, almost like a run-in with an ex—o_ _h._

Clara slumped for a beat where she sat, this thought sinking in. _Quite personal, then. That would explain why he's so prickly._

Malcolm had made mention of the last woman he was with only in passing, once or twice. All Clara had gathered was that it had ended about three months before she crashed into his life, and that she had gotten together with someone else while _she_ was still with Malcolm. That was the long and short of it.

Seems like that someone else was Hewitt, though why it should sting Malcolm this intensely was a mystery to her. They were over, done. She was gone, Clara was here. Didn't that matter? Clara's heart gave a sharp pang of sympathy as she looked at Malcolm anew. It would have been crass and far too dismissive to simply call him _jilted –_ but it was the best word. Deceived and dropped, suddenly and carelessly, by a lover, left to seethe and stew in the bitter dregs of what one could scrape together of their heart _._

 _Oh god, that doesn't make me the rebound does it?_ she thought, taken back by this rude thought. _Bloody well hope not._

"What's the matter?" Malcolm asked.

Clara shook her head. "Nothing," she said, smiling. And she meant it. She stood up and crossed the space between her and Malcolm, trying not to wobble in her heels. "I drifted off a bit. You know me. Prone to zone," she lied, waving her hand round her head as she came around the desk, indicating the airy, silly nature of the thoughts inside.

Malcolm turned the chair at her approach, making it easier for Clara to do exactly as she intended: drop down sideways into his lap. She hooked her legs over the arm of his chair, giving Malcolm enough room to pull back his arm before she trapped it under her knees. That he purposefully left his arm there in order to flip it over and drag his hand under her legs, his fingers tickling that little bend of skin that he had only recently learned was sensitive enough to make Clara shiver, was a very welcome bit of cheekiness indeed.

Clara looped her arms around Malcolm's neck and gave his pensive mouth a little kiss. Kicking her feet slowly back and forth so that both of her black pumps were just barely dangling off her toes, Clara let Malcolm enjoy their brief silence. His breath was silent but sharp, drawing in his chest and making his body clench down through his stomach and into his legs.

"Well it's nice to know you keep your mind active, Clara," Malcolm said. Meaningless words, filler phrases, just something to fill the silence that was growing ever tighter. The invisible thread stitched between them was winding down slowly like a reel being drawn in, dragging them closer together.

Clara resisted the temptation to roll her eyes, deciding it wasn't worth the effort. She shook her head instead. "So why am I here, Malcolm? What did you need?"

Malcolm's frown lifted as he gave Clara a thoughtful looking over. He swept her hair back, baring what small patches of skin could be seen from her v-neck cardigan and square-necked blouse beneath. Clara saw absolutely no reason to stop him, even though she was starting to feel a familiar creeping knot crawl up her back. It was like cold water thrown over her flushed, heated skin.

Malcolm moved his touch up into Clara's hair. Winding the ends around his fingers, he closed her hair inside his fist and pulled it gently back so that her neck was clear for him to kiss. His lips were slow to move away from her neck, but he seemed determined not to kiss her mouth. At least, not yet. His eyes were steady, focusing on Clara's face as she gave him a lazy, warm smile, like the first stretch of the morning. Malcolm didn't have to touch her to sweep her off her feet. Not when she already felt as if she were sinking into a gaze so heavy, so lidded, so warm it knocked the world out from under her.

"That much is clear, yeah? Mind staying out the hour?" he asked, his tone polite.

Clara looked him over with a careful gaze, her smile pressing down into a thin little point, forming a smirk instead. "What's the word?" she asked.

"What word?"

"The magic word," she said. "The nice one. The one I want to hear."

Malcolm didn't even hesitate. "Please." The word was better than any kiss, and he said it with a rush of warmth and tenderness. "Please stay."

Clara stood up, quick as as flash. She waited until Malcolm's expression shifted from a blank slate to a slow growing curiosity before she returned to his chair, straddling him this time. With her hands on his shoulders, her chin raised, and her eyes sparkling with the bit of mischief that was soon devouring anything like fear, Clara gave the end of her feet casual little flicks. Her black pumps dropped to the floor in hard, sharp thuds just as Malcolm's hands grabbed her hips, locking her in place with a strong, tight grip.

"Oh, is that all?" she said, adopting a careless, casual tone. "I can manage that." Clara continued to act as if she was not at all aware of the hard, eager look Malcolm was giving her, though it was trickier to do considering the position she was in. Her anxiety was nowhere to be felt; all Clara could think of was Malcolm's body beneath hers, and how just a little bit of pressure or an ease of weight could draw out the slightest reaction from him.

It was a bit trickier to maintain her sham ignorance when she began to rock ever so gently in his lap, causing Malcolm to grit his teeth and lean his head back against the chair once again. Clara held her breath, counted back from four inside her head, and spoke again. "And considering how you seem strangely reluctant to pull the trigger on the _real_ reason for dragging me in here at this ungodly hour, I figured you needed a bit of help."

"Help?" he echoed, his voice a rasp.

Clara grinned. "A tease, then. Call it what you like. You're still reluctant, Mr. Tucker."

He hissed, then he broke off into a soundless gasp as Clara reached down between his legs to rub his erection through his trousers.

Clara watched, more than a little pleased with herself, as Malcolm's eyes slid shut and all the tension seemed to drain from his face. Every breath hitched and released at the motions of her fingers; she traced little circles that were kept clear of the sharp, metal bite of his zipper. No point hurting the man here. Not when he was making such lovely noises right against her ear.

Leaning in close so that her breasts brushed against his chest, Clara pressed her lips to his ear so that every word she spoke made them brush against his skin in a soft, whispering kiss. He groaned again, a little louder this time, but there was no way he wouldn't be able to hear her. "Alright. You aren't reluctant. Hardly. You do lack initiative, though. How's that?"

Malcolm's eyes flew open when her fingers stopped moving. Clara waited, wondering if he'd ask her to start up again. Instead he said, "That's a highly refuckingfutable statement, yeah?"

Clara knew Malcolm was losing his composure if he started inserting swears into the middle of a perfectly harmless word. With one hand sitting steady on his shoulder, Clara slowly moved the other hand up his stomach and over his chest, her fingers flat. Once she reached his face, Clara ran the tip of her finger across his bottom lip. "Prove it," she said, pushing her face closer until she could see the small, faint versions of herself reflected in his eyes. " _Refute_ it, even."

Clara pressed herself as close to Malcolm as her clothes and the physical limitations of two people on one chair would allow. It was absolutely indecent, the way she was grinding down against his lap. The heat between her legs made the muscles in her thighs contract with more than just the physical labour required for a dry fuck, but she saw no reason to care about propriety just then. Why should it matter? Why should she care? Clara was pretty sure that quite a few people would object to exactly what she and Malcolm were doing— _or about to do, if he keeps moaning like that—_ and that the Prime Minister would be absolutely ranked among them. Not to mention her parents and a fair few vicars scattered between her lapsed religious childhood and her current, indecent state.

But Clara didn't care. She didn't. Truly.

They weren't here. Well, maybe the PM was somewhere, but as long as Clara was with Malcolm the entire world simply didn't matter—it dropped away into a careless, forgotten abyss, swallowed up in the darkness that could no longer torment or hound her the way it did when she tried to sleep alone. That wasn't happening much anymore. Even on nights when she and Malcolm weren't expecting each other's company, Clara felt certain that there was a part of him still there with her, tucked safe and buried deep against her heart. Just as Clara was certain there was a corresponding sanctuary for her in the very same spot of him.

Clara couldn't deny this bond, nor would she let that old awful friend dread try to convince her otherwise. It had no place here, not with Malcolm holding on tightly to her hips, his fingers digging into her sides hard enough for her to be well aware of both the strength of his hands and how they were ever so slightly trembling. It was his usual response to anticipation, one Clara knew would soon settle into a sturdy touch, a silver tongue, and a dizzying blend of tenderness and raw, aching desire.

_I'm better than any rebound, and I mean so much more._

Clara didn't know exactly how much longer either one of them could stay in this chair. It was certainly not big enough for the both of them, but then again the entirety of Number Ten felt far too small to contain either one of their hearts and wills and hungers just then. The furious, demanding passion Clara was ever so diligently coaxing out of Malcolm was as overwhelming as it was exhilarating. So she wasn't exactly surprised when he withdrew his hand from her skirt (ignoring her muffled shriek in protest) and cupped it against her cheek, his other hand soon joining in to hold her face steady between his fingers.

Malcolm kissed Clara with all the strength he could channel into his lips. It was enough to make Clara see sunshine, little flashes of light popping like fireflies on the underside of her eyes. "Stand up," he said. His voice was gruff; it barely left his throat, and leaked out from behind his clenched teeth.

Clara took her time getting off of his lap, not trusting her ability to stand. The second her feet touched the plush pale carpet, Malcolm was out of the chair as well. Tall and thin and looming over her, enclosing her in the heat of his shadow. Malcolm ran one hand down Clara's arm, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to hold on tight as the other lifted up and through her hair again. Tugging ever so gently on the strands gathered up in his hand, Malcolm pulled her head back and bent his head to kiss her once more. It was gentler than before, no lights flashing and no dizzy spells, but Clara was still reeling from the time spent in the chair.

In that moment she felt like she could do anything. It wasn't recklessness, no, nothing like that. It was courage. It was trust. It was the anticipation of being deeply and satisfyingly fucked. Nothing scared Clara anymore. Not in that moment. Not with Malcolm so close at hand.

_People don't make rebounds feel like that._

Malcolm guided her back towards the door Clara knew led to the pantry, that little cupboard he'd mentioned earlier on the phone. She would have laughed if Malcolm gave her room to breathe long enough for it, but his kisses were as devouring as they were demanding, as hungry as they were full of heart. Arching up on her toes, Clara slung her arms in a tight loop around Malcolm's neck to keep her balance. She returned every kiss he gave, breaking off long enough to allow him to open the door and swing her around so that her back was pressed to the wall. There was a buzzing in her head like a snare drum's snap, electric and dizzying and so damn divine.

"The wall or the counter?" Malcolm asked, his voice a low, eager growl that burned his throat.

Clara only had to think for a second before the answer came to her. She took her time in saying it, drawing out his frustration as long as she could. "Counter."

It took all of a frenzied collection of seconds to make enough room for Clara on the thin counter top. Noise wasn't a problem either one of them cared about at that moment; Clara could only spare a few seconds of thought to the clatter of metal cups, saucers, and trays that Malcolm shoved out of the way with all due roughness. Then she was up on the counter, wriggling her way back and lifting up her hips.

Clara tugged at her panties until they were down to her knees. Malcolm, his belt unbuckled, trousers open, pulled the little swatch of black the rest of the way down off her legs. He threw the little silken bundle gracelessly to the floor. Clara grinned, keeping her eyes on Malcolm for as long as she could before she pulled her cardigan over her head, then the shirt beneath. She placed both with considerably more care on what little space was left on the little counter that she didn't occupy.

Just as Clara put both her hands on the counter to balance herself, Malcolm's mouth was on her again. He kissed the top of her breasts as he reached back with one hand to undo the clasp of her bra. In one swift, soft pull it was off and discarded, on the floor. Malcolm's lips moved with a tenderness that clashed with how roughly he took hold of her hip in one hand and reached under her skirt once more. In one slow, sure push he got back to making use of his fingers again. Never did Clara think she would greet the day where Malcolm's fingers made her impatient instead of just plain pleased, and yet—

"Malcolm, _honestly_ ," she gasped, somehow managing to sound offended. "Just fuck me already."

"Well you're certainly keen enough for it," he murmured, curling his fingers inside of Clara and pushing them in further, beyond knuckle-deep. The gesture coaxed out one loud, quick moan before he pulled his fingers out, once again ignoring her protests (a growl this time).

Her breath came in sharp, fast gasps after that, like knives were cutting down through each of her ribs. "Malcolm, _please_." Clara was begging as much as her pride would allow, appealing both to his ego and his libido.

"That's my girl," Malcolm said. "There's the magic word, yeah?"

"Shut up and come _here,_ " Clara snarled, and sat up. She pulled on Malcolm's tie, bringing him closer, and kissed him hard.

Necessity demanded that they break apart and with a short jerk like a trap releasing, Clara let go of his tie. Malcolm didn't move as far back as Clara thought he would. One hand was pressed on the counter, holding onto her hand and giving it a warm, loving squeeze while the other undid his trousers. Closing her eyes to clear her head – it was still buzzing, still snapping—Clara's back arched up as Malcolm fit the tip and then worked in every long, well-loved inch inside her in a slow, deep thrust.

Clara wrapped her arms around him, not meaning to throw off the hand that so sweetly held onto hers, but she ended up doing exactly that. Malcolm pressed it against her lower back instead, his fingers flexing tight. She squeezed her muscles around him, holding him tight at the end of every thrust. Her fingers became claws that scratched at the back of his neck, her heart shaking hard as Malcolm set the pace.

This was new for Clara. Malcolm was almost surprisingly attentive and, dare she say it, sweet, matching every warm kiss with long thrust, and sure he might have an incorrigible habit for talking dirty, but Clara didn't mind that. Just like she didn't mind that he was driving so hard and so deep into her, over and over again. Clara clung to Malcolm, her moans becoming muffled shrieks of breathless, blind ecstasy that she buried against his shoulder. When she became loud enough to draw his attention, Malcolm moved his head back far enough to peer at her. The tip of his nose grazed Clara's cheek as he gave her a quick, sweet kiss.

 _The sweet little English teacher from Coal Hill and the Dark Lord of Downing Street. Who knew?_  She hid her laugh in a moan. Malcolm had told Clara about his nickname during one of their cupboard lunches, along with a few others he had intercepted from botched CC'd emails.

_"That's not so bad. Most people just call me impossible."_

_"Oh, I like that. Impossible. Mind if I use it on you now and then?"_

_"Depends on the context."_

"Clara, hey. Impossible girl. All right?" Malcolm spoke in a whisper, but his hands instantly turned their grip from rough, sharp shackles to a loose, gentle grasp. He slowed his thrusts, making them shorter as Clara fought for enough air and a clear head to speak.

"Don't stop," she gasped, stroking the back of Malcolm's neck with her fingertips, feeling the scratches, scrapes, and little dents of her nails in his skin. "Keep going, just like that— _please._ "

Clara's eyes slid shut as Malcolm kissed her forehead. Without a word he did exactly as she asked, resuming that hard, heavy pace with a laugh that rumbled in his throat and made her heart kick up an almighty fuss.

"All for you, sweetheart."

Clara came first. She always did; Malcolm made sure of it with a sort of manic devotion to building then drawing out her orgasms as much as he could before following suit with his own release. As she came down, she pulled Malcolm close to kiss his lips, his cheeks, the tip and bridge of his nose. Anywhere and everywhere.

"What's this for?" he asked, moving his mouth under hers. When Clara pulled back she could see that he was fighting a smile.

Malcolm's hands were flat on the counter now, positioned at either side of her hips. He had put them there to help with his own balance, waiting until he'd caught his breath before he stood up straight.

"For checking on me," Clara said, her arms still around his neck. Her eyes shone diamond bright. His were the deeper, cloudier lustre of pearls. "For calling me impossible in a nice way. You didn't have to do that."

"Course I did," he said at once.

Malcolm helped Clara back down to her feet. His lips skimmed over hers—and then he dropped to his knees.

"Oh well _this_ is surprising," Clara giggled as she stared down at him.

Malcolm ignored her, but Clara could see him shaking his head in a wordless dismissal as he reached for bra and panties, passing the first one up and holding onto the others.

"Are you going to keep that? You can bring them over when you're done, just in case you find yourself missing me later on."

"Behave," was all Malcolm said. But behaving didn't mean Clara couldn't smile.

Malcolm reached for her leg with his free hand. "Make the job a little easier and step into them, yeah?" he said, holding onto her ankle with the loose loop of his thin fingers.

Clara saw no reason not to do as she was asked. As she stepped into either little opening for her legs, Malcolm let go of her ankle. He pulled the little black silk swatch of fabric up her knees with both hands and then stood up again. Clara finished the rest, keeping her eyes locked onto his.

"Thank you," he said.

Clara raised her eyebrows high. "For what?" she asked, pulling her shirt over her head. The cardigan came next.

Malcolm didn't talk until they were both properly clothed again. "For coming round," he said. "For staying."

"I'd be glad to do it again if this your idea of _keeping company_ ," she laughed. He smiled, but it was gone too soon. "Feeling better now?" Clara asked.

Malcolm grinned. "Yes, thanks to your vag of honour," he said.

Clara's laughter echoed sharply in the small room, and this time his smile lasted much longer.

Malcolm was still smiling as he saw Clara out to the cold night back to her car, kissing her hard enough to bring out the stars in her eyes.

That was when Clara knew then in her heart the full, terrifying depth to which Malcolm cared for her. Not only cared for, but _loved._  She knew it from his lips, from his eyes, from his whispered _goodnight_ and the way he stole another kiss again before she closed the door. No one kissed a rebound like _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long for me to put up. I remember trying desperately to get this chapter out before Christmas, but I had no energy (Decembers are always hard for me). The past half year has been devoted to my original writing and my job writing (since I got one of those, thankfully). Turns out being self-employed and an aspiring freelance author is exhausting work for someone with multiple mental illnesses! Who knew, really.
> 
> I'm also sorry if there's inconsistencies in little plot details or British-English spellings. Stuff slips by me far too easily.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Clara and Malcolm decide to live together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I actually didn't want it to take this long (again), but some major health problems in the summer of 2016 knocked me for a six month loop. I'm slowly getting out of it. While I'm repairing, and while I'm recovering from some medical procedures, I figured I'd do something easy: like rewrite this long-awaited episodic fic.
> 
> Again, I'm sorry for the wait. Hope this makes someone happy.

It was five AM when Malcolm rolled over to gently nudge Clara from her sleep. His touch was uncommonly feather-light, his words a low purr in her ear. "Can you hear me, Clara?" he muttered.

She stirred, moving from her side onto her back, peering blearily at him. "Mm, what?"

"Move in with me?" he asked.

Clara blinked, and kept her eyes closed for a beat. Sleep hadn't quite left her yet; its heavy hand still pressed her into the shadows between awareness and slumber.

"Okay, Malcolm. I'll get packing tomorrow."

And with that Clara rolled back over onto her side and drifted again into a dreamless, hazy sleep.

If she were just a little more conscious she might have noticed the way Malcolm stared at her, dumbfounded, speechless, thin lips parted in a rare moment of surprise. That the bed did not shift again from his side should have let Clara know that Malcolm was perhaps more than a little surprised – stunned into a quiet breakdown would have been a bit more accurate. And yet she was mostly oblivious to that, fading off into a peaceful rest in the few minutes that she had left to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm's question hit Clara properly about a half hour later, when he slipped out to start the coffee and hop in a quick shower. She replayed his question again as she stared at the ceiling over her bed, noticing the flecks of paint that were starting to chip off, creating a look like the seams of the world were coming undone.

_He wants you to move in with him. He actually wants to_ live _with you._ She was too old to be giddy, but she wasn't above small little bursts of uncontrollable joy. Clara rolled over onto Malcolm's side of the bed and buried her face into the extra pillow she always set up he spent the night. Not only had he asked, but he'd been startled that she had actually said _yes._

_And he probably doesn't even think I remember him asking. Bless._ Clara couldn't _wait_ to embarrass him about this over breakfast.

 

* * *

 

Some of the first conversations Clara and Malcolm had when they started spending nights at each other's homes, apart from what either one of them liked for breakfast (Malcolm ate on the run, naturally, and she didn't eat much breakfast at all), centred around sleeping patterns. The polite conversations did, anyway.

" _I can get up when you do, it's not a problem."_

" _And what the fuck would you do that for?"_

" _To... go back home for a bit? Before heading out to work too?"_

" _Seems a waste of a trip."_

" _Seems rude to stay in your place when you aren't there."_

" _Hey, stay as long as you like, sweetheart. I don't care."_

But Clara didn't often take him up on this offer, not sure if it was an offer at all or said simply to be kind. As she lay there, delaying getting dressed for as long as realistically possible, Clara wondered if Malcolm asking her to move in wasn't a direct response to how seldom she actually stayed at his home. He surely noticed it. Malcolm's home, like other certain parts of his life ( _Mostly the job_ ) felt sectioned off and removed from both her influence and right to mingle with. What little experience she had with politics consisted of listening to her father's prevailing disgust for the whole thing, along with certain controversies she was sure were drummed up. That alone taught her she wanted very little to do with the world built on the backs of who you could stand on just to kick down on your way out of the maelstrom. Far too unpredictable, too maddening, not to mention too tempting with its promise of influence.

And that's when it hit her. _I'm going to live with him. He asked me to move in, and I said yes, and it’s… it’s happening._ _The thought sent a shiver through her heart, thrilling and chilling all at once._

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, Clara stood in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, already dressed for work in everything but the heels. As she waited for Malcolm to join her for a little chat, the first wave of worry hit her.

_What if I'm making a mistake?_

Clara put the mug on the counter with a hard _ping_ and stared at the tiles under her feet. _Isn't this just a little too soon?_ He already wanted to live with her? Not every couple who worked fast was doomed to fail, of course. Some people could just look each other in the eye and know in the strange way that some hearts do that they're meant to be together, that they're built to endure it all together, come hell or high water. Death before divorce, and other such dire pledges of absolute fidelity. Clara wasn't sure if she was such a person, and she was just as uncertain about _him_.

A fresh argument broke out in her thoughts as she mulled it over.

_He's the one that asked me._

_When you were half asleep. It could've been a joke._

Clara shook her head, dismissing that thought at once. _Malcolm's jokes aren't like that. They involve more cursing and parts of the human anatomy that require covering by law._

But still the destructive thoughts persisted. _He could've been talking in his sleep._

_Except Malcolm doesn't do that, not ever. The worst he can do sometimes is snore, and even that's not so bad._

_He could be lying._

Clara laughed at that, a bitter, mocking snort. She shook her head once more and picked up her coffee again, taking a long sip that made her throat burn. "What would he actually gain by doing _that_?" she asked, unable to keep the words to herself. "Getting my hopes up just to burn them to the ground? That's cheap – it's cheating."

Clara often talked to herself as if there were two parts of her mind existing in opposition inside this conversation. It was a bad habit she developed during the more troubling parts of her teenage years, when it became readily apparent she had to raise herself. After her mother died and her father lost himself in a year of grief, Clara soon came to realise that advice, counselling, encouragement of all kinds – everything she relied on her mother to give and her father to supplement where he could – would have to come from within herself now. She thought she managed quite well, considering how Linda's arrival threw most of her efforts into a tailspin and her father had slowly closed himself off into a world of all-present apathy.

Clara heard Malcolm whistling from down the hall as he opened the door to the bathroom. She didn't recognize the song, but the sound of the melody and the precise, piercing way he delivered it couldn't help but make her smile. He was already so at home, so unrepentantly himself, with an arsenal of unguarded smiles that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, accompanied by his warm laughter that echoed loud, louder even than hers. The way he fit himself around Clara, one whole shape fitting to meet and match another felt almost as if they had been together for years.

So why _not_ live with each other? It was almost uncanny, the layers Malcolm could shed when he was close to her, not to mention the ease in which he did it. This unravelling process didn't always translate into physical affection, which Clara was learning to like. Malcolm's lingering stares, full to the bursting brim with a tenderness that made her heart ache, were about as intimate as any caress or kiss.

Clara thought about these looks, her mind turning back to the silence after he posed the question and heard her answer, as she listened to Malcolm in the distance. He couldn't have been lying to her. There was never a less likely scenario than that. Clara knew she wasn't dating a cruel man – she certainly wouldn't have bothered to sleep with him if she had a single hint at such a thing. The worst fault she could find so far was his temper, but even that she was willing to forgive. She was no patient saint herself, not when pushed.

_And even that's... Fine. It's manageable. It's doable._ Clara didn't want to say commendable, because what caused him to be so angry wasn't much to commend at all. Clara knew his job brought that mercurial temper out of Malcolm, which she sympathised with as much as she could understand. It helped that Malcolm was almost relentlessly patient in the time he shared with her, as if to make up for the times he could not be fully himself nor marginally capable of humanity.

As if on cue, Malcolm breezed by the kitchen and then doubled back, catching sight of Clara. "Christ, don't fuckin' loom up on us like that," he said.

"I didn't loom, Malcolm, I'm standing still."

"Well don't stand there, give us a kiss." He was smiling wide, eyes sparkling.

Clara handed him a travel mug of coffee instead. "Here. Drink up, you don't have time to charm me."

"I don't make the time, it's a naturally occurring process."

Clara hid her smile and shook her head, eyeing him. He glanced her over right back, endearing even in his silence. One hand in his pocket, the other tipping the travel mug up to his lips, Malcolm paused for a moment before he asked, "What's got you up so early then?"

"You did."

"I was quiet. Barely made a peep."

"Not in bed you didn't."

"Well I should hope not."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Not what I meant," she said, ignoring his smirk.

Malcolm waited, eyebrows lifting. She forced herself to get the words out, no matter how frayed and wild her nerves had become. "I'm up early because of what you asked me."

His smile didn't slip, but Clara watched it lock into place, like a puzzle piece snapping shut along the edges, demanding it belonged where it sees fit to stay. "What did I ask?"

She frowned. _Was he pretending_? She didn't think so. She didn't want to think so. Clara had no choice but to push on ahead, grimly determined, her old friend dread rearing up to make knots of her stomach and a tattered mess of her heart. "You asked me to move in with you," she said.

Malcolm took another sip of his coffee to suppress a cough. He didn't have to say anything. Clara thought she got the hint.

Embarrassed, she moved past him, leaving him with the choice to stay behind or follow as she set about picking up her purse, and checking herself in the little mirror that hung up in the hall between her room and the door. Malcolm followed her, a tall, lanky, dark shadow keeping close on her trail. He even lent his arm as Clara stepped into her heels by the door.

Clara clung hard to his sleeve, wanting him to feel her strength and take strength out of his own. Without looking at Malcolm she asked, casual as could be but knowing the lie was as transparent as the glass door to her shower: "So is that a still standing offer? Did you mean it?"

"Don't you think I meant it?" Malcolm asked. Quickly, breezily, and she heard the laugh and the way it died en route to his mouth as she looked up at him at last.

"If I thought you meant it, would I be asking?"

"Are you calling our credibility into question now?"

_Why the hell does he speak in a plural?_ "Malcolm, just... Answer the question." Clara stared at him, incredulous. She couldn't believe she was actually having this conversation.

_No, it's not a conversation. It's an argument_. An argument about absolutely fuck-all nothing. And there was no anger involved either, just strung out nerves and neither one of them wanting to speak in plain, simple, vulnerable language. Their hurried, heightened months of dating might be enough to decide they had a shot at love, but there was still work to be done on the transition into emotionally candid conversations, apparently.

_Nice to know I'm not the only one struggling with that._

"Are you cross with me?" he asked.

"No – not exactly. Not _with_ you. Because of you."

"Why be cross? What the fuck have I done?" he asked, gesturing to himself with one hand and the travel mug with the other, looking utterly bewildered.

"You drive me mad, that's what you've done – do – did." Clara sighed. She pulled her hand back off his arm and stared up at him again, chewing on the edge of her lip. "Just a straight and simple answer, Malcolm. Yes or no. Think you can do that?" she asked, not waiting for him to answer before she fired off with the real question at hand. "Did you mean it when you asked me to live with you?"

A strange look passed over Malcolm's face, like a ripple in a pond that disturbed the bone pale reflection of the moon. The moon in this case was the mask she was learning to notice Malcolm fixed into place each morning as he got ready for work. The ripples were the man beneath that, the heart and life and mind all hidden beneath the madness, doing what they could to survive.

"Wouldn't have asked it if I didn't mean it, so yes, there's your answer," Malcolm said, and before she could reply he added, "And hey, that stays on this side of the door, right?" His answer came in a rush, as if he were nervous again.

Clara grinned, her heart buoyant. She threw her arms around him in a tight, rattling hug that he couldn't give back, not with his arms pinned to his sides and one hand occupied with the travel mug. She stepped back before he could attempt to regroup himself, flashing a broad smile as she turned to the door. "I meant it," she said. "What I said back in bed. I'll start packing tomorrow."

"Don't know if I can help with that. Might not make it ‘round tomorrow," he said.

Clara shrugged. "I can still pack without you. Shouldn't take more than a few days, really. It'll give me an excuse to chuck a few things." She noticed Malcolm was nodding quickly, his eyes distant. He was still listening but a part of him was also carefully switching off, shutting down, gearing up to prep himself for the trip on over to work. It was time to go.

Her heart sinking just a little, Clara waved in lieu of saying another word and didn't look back, didn't say another word to Malcolm. She didn't trust her heart or her mind's ability to translate its words into any accurate assessments of how she felt, not even for something as quick and painless as a _See you later_.

Which wasn't to say that Malcolm didn't talk to _her_.

 

* * *

 

That morning, Malcolm called Clara’s mobile more times in the few hours before noon than he had the whole month so far. After the first call, and when it became apparent that Malcolm would not let up, Clara came to a quick decision.

"Class, a wager. I will have to keep my mobile on because I'm expecting an important call over the next... long while," she said, keeping her smile in place.

"But Miss Oswald, that's –!"

"Yes, Rose, that's not allowed. Very good. But it's allowed when it's for something important."

"That's not what you said last time."

"Because your boyfriend calling you is not as important as classwork. Please don't talk out of turn again." Clara waited a beat before she let her smile reappear again, looking out over the sea of blank stares and slack jaws. "Now, on to the wager. If you promise to forgive me for this bit of rule breaking, I will waive your three lowest scores and just might make this week's exam an open book." She paused. "This will help those of you who have been thorough note-takers especially, so I suggest pairing off and getting along."

The ring of cheers that went up after this announcement almost drowned out the sound of Clara's mobile going off again. She grabbed the phone and darted out of the room.

"Malcolm?"

"There's plenty of fucking space, you won't have to bin a thing."

It took Clara a second to realise what he meant. She leaned against the door to her class, shutting it with a tight snap and keeping an eye on her students through the glass. "It's not a problem, really. It'll give me an excuse to clean. And hi, by the way."

"You don't need a reason to do that, you're always about it anyway. You should get yourself a uniform for that – hey, there's an idea. Might send Sam off to Xpressions to find latex maid gear in your size."

"Don't you _dare_."

"Too late, she's gone off."

Clara pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "Malcolm, I clean because it keeps me busy and it takes my mind off things. And because I sort of, you know. Have to clean."

"Hey, the only thing that you have to do is promise you won't bring those little throw pillows with you in the move. Can you do that for us?"

She opened her eyes, grinning. "Oh, I hadn't thought about that. Would they match your sofa?"

Malcolm's frustration was palpable on the other end of the line. "Now's not the time to have selective hearing, alright? It's – " his voice trailed off, and Clara heard him hiss out a swear. "Talk later. In five. Or three, depends how long it takes to verbally vivisect a person."

Clara imagined that might take at least a half hour to do this, even for someone of Malcolm's vulgar prowess, so she hung up and returned to the class with a quick trot, ready to resume the lesson.

She didn't expect to hear from Malcolm again for at least another hour, and yet he called back in almost the exact length of time as he'd predicted – three minutes, with just a few seconds’ overlap.

"Right, so. No throw pillows," he said.

"I'm bringing the pillows." Clara put her shoulders back against the door and folded one arm over her chest, warming her cold hand under her arm.

"Fine, then you can forget that tattered patchwork disgrace of a fucking bathrobe."

"Malcolm, you're not actually trying to tell me what I can and can't bring along to your – to my – to _our_ home, are you?"

"Christ, say that again, would you? The last bit, right at the end."

"Are you?"

"Before that."

"Our... home?"

Clara could hear the smile behind Malcolm's words. "Jesus, that's a terrifying domestic concept, isn't it? And it's not –" he stopped himself halfway through. Clara heard a hard slam on his end, like a hand meeting a desk, or perhaps a door being shoved shut.

"It's not exactly infuckingtentional," Malcolm hissed, his voice low in her ear, as if he were hiding in a closet or a pantry. She thought of their cupboard and couldn’t help but grin again. "It's all overlapping a bit, sweetheart. Have to wedge the talk in between shouting matches, so I might get a few wires crossed."

"Thank you for... er, taking the time to explain that," she said, balancing her phone against her shoulder. "But I'm still bringing that robe with me."

"Oh fuck me, I'll buy you a better one, please."

Clara shrugged. "You can do that if you'd like. I don't mind having two."

Malcolm hung up without a word, but that didn't worry her much. She heard someone talking on his end, a voice approaching fast and rising up to snatch away whatever attention he had cared to spare for her.

He called once more just at the end of her lunch only to say, "You can keep that sad heap of a robe as long as there's no change to the bedtime attire, yeah?"

This was an odd request considering, Clara mostly slept in a slip or, when Malcolm spent the night acting as her own personal furnace, a pair of boyshorts or black-laced pants she had just recently taken off. Clara explained this to Malcolm in an undertone, cupping her hand around the phone.

"Exactly," he said, and she could almost picture the look on his face as he spoke it. Teeth bared, eyebrows raised up to his hair, all fierce and alarming and yet compelling despite that. He must have been hurrying somewhere as he spoke, because Clara could hear the faint hint of breathlessness between the first word and the ones that came next. "As long as that doesn't change we should all live together happily. Even with those fucking throw pillows."

"That's a very easy standard to meet, Malcolm. Low hanging fruit, I'd say."

"It's best to keep the expectations low, I find. Because then everything else is a right fucking surprise."

"Point taken. Are... you alright? You sound a bit winded."

"I've got to stop a man from drowning in full view of the press. Not just _any_ press, some bird sent over from the Daily wankin' Mail."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"It is, now wish us luck."

"Good luck. Take care."

"You too, hey? I meant it, really. Our home, right?"

Clara nodded, realized he couldn't see that, and then tried to speak – but she found herself shamefully stricken with the burning, blinding prologue to tears. _Our home._ Malcolm lingered on the line for a bit, perhaps waiting for her to speak up, so she forced out a half-squeaking, "Right, yeah. Of course."

She hung up first that time, ashamed that two words could affect her as much as these did.

 

* * *

 

When she got home from work, Clara set about in the slow, mechanical process of deciding which parts of her life to shut away in boxes and which to trash, donate, or resign to storage for a later year. She committed herself wholeheartedly to the effort, no matter how heavy her heart was just then. Luckily she had a cup of tea at her side for moral support and the television muttering quietly as a background hum.

Malcolm got in touch only once to reschedule tomorrow's date – "We can push it back just a bit, can't we?" "Of course we can. Just come 'round when you're free." – but other than that it was a quiet, mostly wordless night at home. Such nights were numbered now, which made her feel less sadness than it once might.

Clara wasn't too attached to her flat. It was affordable and got the whole 'place to live' job done well enough, but it felt much more like a rest stop in between sections of her life. It wasn’t as much of a real home as it was a customary set of walls and ceiling and a door with a lock to keep out the world, anyway.

_Our home_. While his home may have been technically Malcolm's first, what mattered now was that Clara would bring to that little world now that it was her own to share.

_His first, mine now, ours for... the time being._ Clara wouldn't say forever. Nothing was the only thing that lasted that long, and no matter how relieved she was by the whole experience, Clara wouldn’t let herself fall too easily into the pitfalls of boundless hope.

* * *

Clara brought her stuff over to Malcolm’s house in waves, leaving behind boxes and bags and little personal trinkets that blended in nicely into his own decorations. The little touches that made up her own personal taste quickly brought in a new sense of life to the house. Malcolm’s home hadn't exactly been Spartan before, but it did undeniably carry the air of being barely lived in and underappreciated. Really, it was more of an _idea_ of a home than an actual one.

But that was going to change now. She could sense the shift in Malcolm, as if his life were pivoting around the fact that she would be closer to him with some degree of permanence. Little things took root and became larger foundations: a toothbrush, her coats in the hall closet, her hairbrushes and shampoo bottles. Bags of make-up tucked under the sink, her favourite mugs stashed in the cupboards, and her shoes lined up next to his by the door. Books from her university years were given the same space on the shelves in _their_ living room, along with their mingled accumulation of DVDs. Malcolm's collection was more prolific than hers, but Clara's had the most classics to boast, films that even Malcolm would pause long enough to watch. It never failed to make her smile to see how easily he was drawn in by the perils and mystery of _Rebecca_ , the taut tension and drama of _Notorious,_ or openly amused by the body count of a pair of old spinsters in _Arsenic and Old Lace_. His seemed to be a mass of subtitles, tears, and lingering leaden ennui.

Photographs weren't much of an issue for either of them. Clara had little to bring over, and Malcolm had very few of his own, apart from those Came With the Frame families he liked to leave in as a stunt to confuse any guests that didn't know him well enough to tell the difference. He kept the real family photographs upstairs: a hidden shrine for his mother, his sister, and his niece.

Malcolm agreed to let Clara hang up a few pieces of art and take charge of the mantle in the front room near the little table that acted as both work bench and meal supporter. Clara planned to put fresh flowers on the mantle as often as she could manage, glad to be able to use the space for something other than a flat space for dust to accumulate. Malcolm had even eased up about the throw pillows when she pointed out how nicely they went with the couch.

"And they're comfortable, you know. Not much impact if you actually want to _throw_ them, but they're quite useful at the whole cushioning purpose." And this was demonstrated by them both later that night when Malcolm finally came home to greet her for the first time.

Clara pulled him down on the couch after he changed from his work attire into something more relaxed and casual, ignoring his half-hearted complaints, knowing they would soon fade. Eventually, and with no grumbles on his part, Malcolm shifted until he lay against the couch proper, letting Clara lean against his chest.

"Comfortable?"

"Yeah, I am," Malcolm said. Clara smiled as she felt his voice vibrate up through his chest.

As the minutes passed, Clara returned to the book she had been reading before Malcolm arrived, her eyes skimming fast along every page. All the while, he multi-tasked with his mobile in one hand as the other idly trailed up and down her arm, his long, warm fingers pulling her mind off the page and the story printed there.

"What's that you've got?" he asked some time later, dropping his phone down onto the glass coffee table.

Clara tucked her finger into the book and shut it, showing him the cover.

"Never read it."

"It's my favourite," Clara said. "I try to read it once a year, maybe more if I can spare the time."

Malcolm had nothing to say to this, but he watched in silence as she opened up the book again and resumed reading, starting up at the top of a large, black chunk of a paragraph. She only got a few sentences in before Malcolm distracted her again.

"That's a nice sentiment, isn't it," he said. It was clear he'd been reading over her head.

"What is?" she asked.

Malcolm pointed, running his finger in a quick pass up and down the page. "All of that. It's the sort of nauseatingly romantic wank you wouldn't think to call Victorian."

"It's really only one of those things," Clara huffed, trying her best not to sound offended. But Malcolm heard the bruise beneath the words, and he worked his best to undo the harm. "And that's excluding Victorian," she added before he could try.

"Jesus, you know what I meant. There's too much heart in there to match the era."

"Too much heart where?" Clara asked, holding up the book for Malcolm to take. "What part specifically – show me?"

But he did one better. He let Clara hold the book as he read the part out loud.

" _'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still. If you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat – your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me. If you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her, and in your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me. I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.'_ "

Clara squirmed a bit after this, turning over as best she could without elbowing Malcolm until she was lying with her chest against his, her face held up over his own. She smiled at him, holding Malcolm's gaze in a look that lingered long and suggested more than words might ever be able to say. She figured it was worth a try anyway. "Read it again, please."

"Later," he said. Then, just like that, his fingers were in her hair and one hand cupped her face, and then his lips were on hers, kissing her, warming her, breathing her in. And while she wouldn't dare call herself sentimental, Clara didn't have the heart to suppress the thought that this was their christening kiss. Not the first kiss under this roof, to be sure – and may heaven grant it wouldn't be the last – but it was the first kiss when the house was _theirs_. Malcolm's to share and hers to cherish, but theirs to make into a full and proper home.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Wedding**

Malcolm was nervous. Against all logic and currently known reason, the man whose silent glare was enough to carve fear into a man's heart was _nervous_. What she couldn't understand was why.

He hid it well, but Clara could spot more than a few giveaways. His fingers clutched and clawed at the back of her hand, grinding her bones like angry teeth. His other hand didn't seem to know where to rest. It jumped from his pocket to his mouth, the tight press of his fingers trapping any explanation he might give to justify his behavior.

Clara eyed him askance, keeping a firm grip on his hand. Watch, wait, and listen. _The truth will come out eventually. Malcolm can't hide from me for long–thankfully._ He could do his best, but the truth would come out in the end, defiant and determined. For Malcolm, the truth he had to distort and dress up each and every day of his life took its revenge when he was alone, at home, with her. At home, in their sanctuary, a transformation took place. The truth, which Clara had always thought would indeed set a person free, became instead something ugly and raw, possessing a ragged voice of its own that came bursting out of Malcolm whether he liked it or not.

But they weren’t alone. Worse, they weren’t at home, safe, away from prying eyes and the simple, lazy public Malcolm worked so hard to placate and deceive. The truth was an ache itching to be known, and it wouldn’t abide being silent for long.

Moving slow enough to not catch him by surprise, Clara dropped Malcolm’s hand and then slipped her arm through his, creating a chain of tense bones and long sleeves. He still tensed, like a man struck.

“Easy, love. It’s just me,” she said, her voice low. Soft words for the sharp ones struggling to be free.

Something in Malcolm relented at the sound of her voice. He relaxed into the weight and warmth of her touch, and before long he was actually patting the back of Clara's hand.

"Forgot how fucking cold you are," he muttered with a crooked smile. "Even though it's balls deep in summer, you're still frozen stiff."

"Beautiful imagery there, Malcolm." Clara laughed as she studied him askance, still curious. "And on the subject of _stiff_..."

"I beg your absolute fucking pardon?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I was talking about your face and your shoulders.”

Malcolm's laughter moved over his face in gradual twists, making his lips crook sideways into a lop-sided grin. Not for the first time since they’d met—and fell in love—Clara marveled at how handsome Malcolm was in motion. Even if he was also a bit worrying when he got this way—alive and wired, his every thought set aflame inside his head—she couldn’t deny that he was also easy on the eyes, beautiful in a way that was often misunderstood. Sharp, savage, vibrant. Nothing soft or muted about him at all.

"I _was_ going to ask why you're so tense," Clara said, getting back on track. "This isn't your first time outdoors."

"I'm well fucking aware of all the local traveling I do on a day to day basis, sweetheart," Malcolm said. "But it's not often I have actual company with me. Charming company, I might add."

"Yes, very charming company," she snorted, tugging on his arm a little bit. "The kind of company that jokes about certain lengths and shortcomings."

"No, see, that's part of your charm. You overlook the glaring personal flaws I possess and aim only for low blows. It's impressive. Endearing, even."

"And you're rambling."

"Is that what you call my compliments?" he asked. He turned, showing off his smile in a quick, sudden expression that caught her heart in a tight grip. His smiles were like his kisses, heady, hungry, and hell-bent, full of fury like the rival fire of heaven. Bare, brutal, honest. _And only for me._

"No, those are fine," she said, jarring herself from her thoughts before the silence stretched on for too long. "A bit nattering and long-winded, but they're compliments all the same. I know your heart's in the right place–and I know exactly where it is, too. Buried down deep beneath your grumpy little shell."

He scowled.

Clara smiled to show she meant no harm, nudging him gently in the side. "Relax a little, would you? You look like you're one thought away from a stroke."

"It's a force of habit, sweetheart. Trust me. Certainly not a comment on the present company," Malcolm said, his words sliding out from the crooked corner of his mouth.

"I should hope not," she laughed. "I'd like to imagine I'm more enjoyable than most of the daily company you keep at Downi–er, down at work." Clara caught herself before the end of the sentence, but even with her almost faux pas fully avoided, she couldn't help but peer curiously at the other people passing by. Did they hear her? Was it just her imagination, or did that one bloke in the red shirt actually turn around to stare at them?

"We can discuss the impressive arrangement of failures and fuck ups I have to beat into submission sometime later, yeah?" Malcolm said, looking Clara's face up and down, side to side. He didn’t fail to notice the ripple of tension that moved across her face, and she didn’t bother to hide it.

"Sure we can. But for now, let's focus on the positive things. Pleasant company, a nice, early dinner, and a dessert menu to sample."

"Just one part of it, really," Malcolm said. "You'll like this place, sweetheart. They've got the biggest bastarding brownies I've ever seen. About the size of one of your forearms–and probably just as heavy."

She wondered, also not for the first time, if his sweet tooth was a subconscious rebellion against all the bitter, sour bits of his day to day life. _That would explain the fillings all along his back teeth–and the body chocolate in the nightstand drawer._

It was hard to imagine that the food at what seemed to be the equivalent of a chain restaurant could be anywhere near as delicious as the food that Malcolm somehow found the time and skill-set to concoct, but Clara wasn't exactly a picky eater. What her palate lacked in refinement, it made up for in a widespread culinary acceptance–provided she wasn't dining on a set of once-internal organs, of course. Luckily they both drew a neat but forceful line at viscera.

As she followed Malcolm into the Slug and Lettuce, Clara heard him take a breath as the doors closed, shutting the pair inside with the warmly chattering crowd and cheerfully grinning staff. As the late summer warmth and the hum of the streets faded away, something clicked into place inside Clara's brain. She knew what was bothering Malcolm. She knew why he was so frightfully jittery, and why he was so wound up like a man about to bare a wound to a cruel set of teeth.

It was the outside world that got under Malcolm's skin, nestling there like a conquering worm along his every nerve and vein, until his skin could barely rest easy on the bones within. Clara couldn't understand this unease, much to her hidden chagrin. It wasn't as if Malcolm had a great phobia of the public, more like an ever-renewing aversion for people and all times wasted on them.

And yet there was no denying that Malcolm took pride in his work at Number Ten. All the repackaged, carefully worded truths pared down to be nicer, necessary lies, the late and grueling hours, the vitriol-spewing phone-calls and strongly worded emails dear Sam had to rewrite into less threatening tones, were as much a consequence of the work as well as a point of pride. It was all a kind of calling for Malcolm, all this string-pulling and political shepherding, the way some people were born knowing they were an artist, or a doctor, or a professional criminal. Clara couldn't understand that, having no calling herself–at least no calling that she was currently aware of. She didn't count living quietly and guarding herself with a sort of harrowing intensity as a kind of _destiny,_ but at the very least she and Malcolm could benefit from it.

But Malcolm's calling... Well, that was another matter entirely. Clara hadn't developed the habit of questioning him about his work at Number Ten, about what he hoped to really _do_ with it all in the end, or why he bothered to stick with it when all the job seemed to do was shave years off his life. She hoped he would come to that conclusion on his own without her needing to push him, however gently. Most worrisome of all was the fact that all of Malcolm's noble, well-intentioned reasons for continuing as the Director of Communications (a "calling" whose life-span didn't seem to last more than a few _months_ according to the guilty, curious Google searches she did) seemed to fade away like so much withered dust in the wind.

Malcolm had once told Clara that he still dedicated himself to all this spinning (" _Refining_ , not _spinning,_ sweetheart. One is done by a man with some semblance of honor and dignity, the other is the last resort of shit-spraying vampire hacks,"), and still found some small bit of joy in it, because he knew it was for a greater cause. The benefit wasn't always immediate, nor could the value of the work be seen right away, but it was there. It had to be.

 _Thoughts like that can wait, yeah? We're on a date here. One of our rare, proper dates – in public, even. Try to keep yourself upbeat and the thoughts positive._ Clara pulled herself together with a considerable effort, threw her shoulders back, and offered Malcolm's curious, cutting stare a warm smile.

"Sorry. Lost myself for a second there," she said, her grin turning into a shy little twist.

“Nothing too serious?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting up in a curious arch.

She shook her head. _Liar._ But a necessary lie. A kind lie. The sort of lie told when the truth was too hard to say.

Together they walked to the most secluded table available in such a bright, open restaurant. The Slug and Lettuce had an undeniable charm, a lightness of being that made Clara feel like a ghost in the light. Half of the walls were made of glass, allowing occupants and outsiders to peer back and forth through the windows and over the carefully maintained, dark green hedges in the sidewalk out front. The inside of the restaurant itself was wide open, with little in the way of private partitions separating one table from the next. This spaciousness worked as a sort of reverse isolation tactic, but it wasn't until they both sat down did Clara realize the genius of this set up.

To be so closely packed in next to strangers forced the patrons to make a conscious, ever active effort to ignore everything that was not theirs to know. Discretion may not have been an intentional part of the restaurant's layout, but it was certainly a learned behavior. _We can sit here and talk about anything, and no one would be listening. They’d be too busy trying not to be heard._

As if on cue, Malcolm turned to Clara and said, “A friend of mine owns the place. Gave him a few suggestions on the layout after he showed me the blue prints.”

“And am I going to meet this friend?” She didn’t know why she asked. Not then, not when there was already a fragile stretch of peace between them. The words slipped out of her before she had a chance to rethink their possible impact.

The question threw Malcolm off his carefully honed guard. “I don’t know,” he said, speaking to himself as much as he was Clara. He peered at her, his storm pale eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

They sat down in silence.

“No,” she said, hearing her teeth click on the word. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

Clara held his gaze in silence for as long as she could stand it. She sagged in her chair, chewed on the corner of her lip, and tapped her fingers in a toneless rhythm on the table. She glanced out the window, squinting against the rare bit of sun reflecting off the windows from across the street.

"I could get used to outings like this," she said. "Can you imagine turning this into a habit? We'd almost be like a normal couple if we kept that up."

"Is that what you want?" Malcolm asked, carefully studying her face. "To be a normal couple?"

Clara took her time before she answered. "That’s all I could hope for us at this point," she said, folding her fingers one through the other and twiddling her thumbs. After a moment, and another sharp bite on the corner of her mouth, Clara shifted her eyes up to meet his. “That in a few months or years we could fall into the trap of boring, simple, normal living.” She smiled as she considered it. “Happy living.”

There was a light in Malcolm's eyes that gleamed almost brighter than the chrome and steel surfaces surrounding them both, his pale blue eyes now seeming to show flecks of grey and green. Clara basked in his look for as long as she could justify the indulgence and then cleared her throat, shifting her chair closer to the table.

The server came over to collect their drink orders – waters for them both, with a slice of lemon in Clara's (much to Malcolm's amusement) – and left behind a pair of menus for them to peruse. Clara lapsed into the comforting lull of so much mumbled chatter and clanging cutlery going on around them.

"Do you do that a lot?" Malcolm asked, cutting into Clara's thoughts with the low intruding purr of his voice.

"Do what?" she asked, peering at him over the top of the menu.

Malcolm placed his flat on the table, trapping it under his folded hands. "Think about us months from now–years, even."

This question was the closest thing to a loving trap Clara had ever heard. Her anxiety and old pal Dread wanted her to tread carefully from here on out, while her typical easily rattled marital nerves, the past reason for previous break ups, furiously demanded that she keep her heart closed in close, with all its contents hidden even further still.

 _Don't rock the boat, don't ask for too much too fast, and above fucking all, do_ not _sound like you're more serious about this than he is._ Clara considered all these bits of would-be wisdom and then carefully, with the cruel precision of a meat cleaver hacking off a bloody flank, severed herself from its influence.

_Rock the bloody boat. Ask for whatever you damn well wanted. And above fucking all, sound as serious as you are about your life with this man._

She was already a goner from the moment Malcolm opened his mouth and spoke to her, a fact she didn't bother to deny as much as she wasn't sure how to properly accept, much less vocalize. Every moment that she spent with Malcolm after that first meeting at Tesco was just a way to further cement this simple, inarguable fact: she was happy with Malcolm. Not only that, she wanted to be with him, and with him she had found a partnership far more enriching, exciting, and bizarrely rewarding than she had ever expected of a man whose first impression had been made over a broken bottle of milk.

"I suppose... you could say that, er... yeah – yeah I do.” She couldn't quite bring herself to look at Malcolm yet. Opening up about this truth was about all her courage could currently take. Anything else would be a disastrous bout of overkill to her already overtaxed nerves, and likely to send her into an ill-timed nauseated fit. And while Malcolm was known for being almost worryingly tender to Clara in her weakest moments, she didn't exactly think an early dinner at a chain pub was the best place for chivalrous displays.

 _Especially not with a boyfriend who gets easily rattled by being in public,_ Clara thought. _Oh, Malcolm. Bless you and your aggressively delicate disposition._

Seconds ticked by in what Clara hoped was amicable silence. Soon enough it became tantamount to torture, and she couldn't hold back any longer. Clara closed her eyes, took a breath that usually accompanied a deep plunge, and sat up straight in her chair again.

"I'm not trying to pin you down or–or anything even close to that," she stammered out, her voice going a little too high with the volume turned up just a bit too loud. "I just–I only meant that I love you and I love our time together, so I like to imagine more of it."

"How much more of it?" Malcolm asked, his voice low and warm again, defying the cold, bone-white mask of his expression.

"Years," Clara admitted, clearing her throat to force more words out from the anxious lump growing there. "Sometimes my whole life. I'd be happy if I spent my whole life with you, Malcolm. I can't even think of ever wanting anything else, and that's not for a lack of imagination as much as it is a lack of interest in anything... any _one_ else."

The server came back to collect their menus and their orders. By the grace of some god and your strained, empty stomach, Clara told him what she wanted and waited for Malcolm to do the same. With their waters refilled and the shared silence reaching the kind of frenzied boil that demanded a quick, sudden break, Clara finally lifted her eyes off her clenched pale hands and focused once again on Malcolm. His eyes were still glittering and bright, and such a lovely mutable shade of blue, but there was a darker light inside them now, like the shadows surrounding a thin single match wavering in the dark.

Malcolm planted his elbows on the table, his hands and fingers like a long steeple used to hide his mouth. After a moment, he folded his fingers down then very slowly lowered his hands to the table. His eyes didn't waver in their steady gaze trained onto Clara's face, not even once. "I don't feel pinned down."

"I'm sorry?"

"Hearing you talk like that–about a life together. About–" he moved one finger back and forth from his chest to where she sat once, twice, in quick succession, "–the two of us. I don't feel pinned down at all. I can't, not really, seeing as I thought the same thing."

Malcolm's pause after this statement was a mindful one, weighted and with a sure purpose. Clara waited for him to start talking again, keeping her lips tightly sealed and her smile in check.

"So you shouldn't worry one bit about the pinning," Malcolm continued. "And it's not as if I've raised any major fucking complaints about your bossy habits in the past, yeah?"

Clara felt the blood rush to her cheeks as she shook her head, stray bits of hair falling around her face and into her eyes. "Is this our first time actually talking about a future together?" she wondered, reaching out to cup her glass of water in both hands and drag it closer to her chest.

Malcolm nodded. "Seems like it," he said. "Makes for a nice change of pace. No more projecting and quietly assuming that life's going to be all neat and fucking tidy, just as planned."

"Right," Clara said, nodded promptly. Then she frowned. "Wait, what?"

"I mean we're not dancing around the subject anymore, are we? No more doing the shuftie around the marital-minded elephant in the dead fucking center of the room. No, we're all set to talk about it. Flat out."

" You're losing me here," Clara said.

"Am I?" he asked, eyeing her sharply.

"Well... and correct me if I'm off the mark here, but it sounds–it sounds like you're saying you... want a life with me. That you actually do want and have even thought about–about us. Us having a future." Clara held her breath for a five count and then exhaled slowly, slumping in her chair again. She lifted her lemon water up to her mouth and took a long, refreshing sip, ever-mindful of the way Malcolm's eyes tracked the movements of her throat. He watched Clara less like a beast searching for the best place to bite and more like a man eager to trace the subtle, shifting layers of her well-loved, adoringly-explored skin.

"Because I have," he said.

Clara stared, all wide eyes and astonished open mouth. Even if the server hadn't arrived with her food just then, thus cutting off a chance for any remarks to Malcolm in a timely fashion, she still would have sat there in stunned, flattered silence. Clara was sure of this fact, just as she was sure that she would never quite tire of repeating Malcolm's words inside the celebratory echo chamber of her thoughts.

 _Because I have._ That laugh, that smile, those bright eyes and the way they transformed his face from a haunted man into a heartfelt one. A man so loving and so alive that Clara's heart could barely stand to keep up the pace her passion set.

 _Because I have._ Such a pale thin mouth. Almost weak-lipped, accordingly to some. But Clara had never known a stronger kiss than what Malcolm was always prepared to deliver, nor had she ever known a mouth to contain words so soul-soothingly sweet as his own, all its vulgar penchants notwithstanding.

 _Because I have._ When and why and for how long? What was the inspiration for the first ever thought he had about a life with her, a life dually shared and bared for the other to bind themselves to, as neatly as a stitch?

The sun slowly hid its head behind the lumbering glass and brick horizon, bringing an early night to an even earlier outing. Clara and Malcolm didn't speak much after this, sharing only small bits of conversation about harmless, inconsequential topics–how the food tasted, the wonky leg on the table that made it wobble based on where she put her hands, the loud ringing laugh of the man in the far corner just over Malcolm's shoulder. It wasn't until their plates were cleared and the sweets were ordered ("Two of your biggest bastarding brownies, please and thank you," Malcolm said, prompting Clara to duck her head and hide a careless giggle) did she think to steer the conversation back to the earlier topic.

Where Clara dived right into the after-meal treat, Malcolm seemed content to take his time. She paid close attention to the way his long pale hands moved from the plate to his mouth, breaking off bite-sized chunks with a quick wrench of his fingers, chunks he then popped between his teeth with an almost graceful flutter of his fingers. Tension settled in once again along his shoulders, making them into a taut line that Clara longed to soothe with gentle prods and warm kisses. Malcolm's mouth opened and shut like a metal trap, and despite all this rigid, forbidding air settling over him, his eyes were just as tender as they had been when they first sat down.

 _He's nervous again. That's all it is._ But why? Clara still couldn't quite understand it. The only hint she had for an explanation behind his recent return to unease was the topic about them sharing a future–but Malcolm had made it quite clear that he didn't mind that at all. If anything he welcomed it, the way he usually welcomed all things to do with Clara becoming further and blissfully entangled in his life.

 _And doesn't that make marriage easier? The excitement, the thrill, the endlessly renewing love for each other?_ Clara chewed hard on the inside of her cheek, moving her tongue around to clear out the bits of brownie lodged in her teeth. _Marriage isn't about cementing love in and hoping it never fades, ever dreading the moment when it might. Marriage is about finding out how often you can fall back in love over and over again, in so many different ways. It means you change together, you adapt and age and learn with each other. You don't stop, not even close. You grow._

Assuming that Malcolm was of a similar mind as her on the subject, this was precisely what had him so riled up and mercilessly nervous ever since they set foot outside the house and went for a walk down through the August-warm streets of dear old, CCTV-monitored London. Malcolm was like a self-contained bonfire that burned brighter and deeper and wilder the more Clara looked on. But fires were alive and willful, just like the hearts locked inside bones and skin. And just like hearts, fires were a heavy burden, fully determined to consume.

Malcolm studied Clara's face with a gaze meant to move all that he saw into the vault of memory, not to mention whatever home he set aside for her in his heart. "Let me ask you a question, love," he said.

"I'm listening."

Malcolm's tongue darted out quickly to wet his lips. His shoulders rose up in a quick spike as he breathed. The rest of him was frozen solid, still. "Would you want to spend your life with someone like me? Someone who can't promise you happiness or anything even a hair's fucking breadth fucking close to it, but can swear down to his seminal fluid to do right by you, to–to love you, however best I can love you?"

Clara's answer didn't take more than a second to compose. The words were all but dancing off her lips. "I already love you, Malcolm. You know that. And I'm _already_ sharing my life with you–or did the move-in three months back fail to leave that impression on you?"

"The regular shagging and loss of closest space did not escape my notice, no," he admitted, grinning wildly as her face turned bright red again. "Though really, your old lady cardigans and all those frilly fucking dresses you wear are a nice addition to the place."

"Is that so?"

"To the floor, mainly."

Clara snorted. "Well then move the laundry basket closer to the bed and they won't _be_ on the floor," she said–and then she noticed the wicked tinge to his grin, the darker gleam in his eyes. "Oh you meant—you mean the other thing," she laughed. "Right. Sure. Course you did."

Clara's smile brought a rare, effortless laugh out of Malcolm. "Well?" he prompted her after a minute passed, clearly impatient.

"Well what?"

"Well, would you want someone like that–someone like me?"

"For how long?"

"For a while. A longish while. For the foreseeable future of your current lifespan-”

Clara sighed again. "Just _ask me_ , Malcolm.”

"Ask you what, love?"

"'Will you marry me?'"

"Yes," Malcolm said, his grin so wide it almost split his face. "I will."

Clara blinked. After a quiet moment in which loud blaring circus music played throughout her head, she shook herself out of a trace and leaned forward over the table, reaching out for his hands. "No, that's–that's what you..." her words trailed off the way smoke could get lost in the wild air.

Malcolm waited for her to compose her thoughts. He had to wait quite a bit.

"That... that _is_ what you were going to ask me, wasn't it?" she asked, her throat slowly closing over in the cold grip of new growing panic. "Right? Malcolm?"

Malcolm's grin became a small, achingly sweet smile. He reached into his pocket, his hand fiddling about under the table for a few alarming seconds, until it returned to the surface. He reached over to the empty space between Clara's plate and the table's edge and lowered his hand, leaving behind a small, black velvet box.

Silence fell like a dark cloud inside her head, ushering out all that clownish racket that had once filled up her every panicked thought. Clara held her breath, which was just as well since she also wanted to scream as loud as she could until her lungs burst like a bean-pod clenched between iron fingers.

"Looks like I'll be opening it," Malcolm chuckled as Clara continued to sit there, wide-eyed and stunned silent. "Since you were nice enough to pop the question first."

Malcolm opened the little velvet box with a tenderly slow press of his fingers. Waiting inside on the little crème-colored pillow was a small golden ring. There was a short row of five diamonds lined up on top.

"Five?" It was all Clara could think to ask.

 

* * *

 

 

"Should I get down on my knees, then?" Malcolm asked, his pale eyebrows darting up high, creasing his forehead.

"No! No, not here," Clara said, her voice almost a shout. Biting her lip hard enough to hurt, Clara looked him over. His face showed nothing but the heart he pledged to her from the moment they crashed into each other's lives. "Malcolm, are you sure about this?"

"It's about the only fucking thing I am sure of anymore," he said. His voice was voice quiet and his hands were quite steady where they lay on the table. "What about you?"

"Bloody hell, are you _mad_? _Yes_!"

At the sound of Malcolm's laugh, loud and free, the kind of laugh he only let Clara hear in secret, in the comforts of each others' arms and the sanctuary that was their home, some kind of spell broke its hold on her. No longer frozen, and far from feeling anything like the cold lock of being stunned, Clara reached out for the ring–and then she stopped, struck by the jolt of a sudden thought.

Folding her hands calmly one over the other, she smiled at Malcolm like a sphinx swallowing the prized answer to a riddle. "Since we got this whole proposal thing twisted around back to front, how about you put the ring on me _without_ having to kneel?"

"As you wish, sweetheart," he murmured, his gaze glossed over by pure love.

Malcolm fit the ring on Clara with glass-careful care. Once the ring was on and set in its rightful place–just a bit too big for her finger, but nothing a quick pop in to the jewelers couldn't fix–Malcolm laced his fingers through Clara's, holding on tight with one steady press of his hand.

"Had you... well, when would you like to–?"

"Soon," Clara said, squeezing Malcolm's hand. "As soon as possible, preferably."

Malcolm studied her. "No ceremony?" he asked. "Not that I think either of us are up for the usual Bacchanalian display, but we've enough family between the two of us to scrounge up a nice dinner, I think."

"I don't really want any of that," Clara said, discovering the truth as she said it. While Sarah Jane might not forgive her, and she imagined that the newly patched up friendship she had made with Amy and Rory would suffer the smallest of shocks at this little upset, there really was no one that Clara wanted to be at the wedding. Certainly not her father-and Linda would of course have to tag along.

That settled the matter.

With a fleeting, guilty thought about her Gran, and an apology prepared for every day of the coming twenty years, Clara wet her lips, shook her head, and made up her mind. "Weddings of any size always seemed like a poor excuse to make everyone _else_ feel important on a day that had nothing to do with them."

"That's almost cynical of you," Malcolm said.

"It's the truth," she argued, shrugging. "Us getting married has nothing to do with anyone else, but don't let that stop you from ringing your mother and sister. I understand if you want them to be here."

"What I want is to be your husband. I'm tired of not being married to you."

"God, that's so _sentimental,_ " she laughed. "That's five diamonds for _five months_ level of sentimental."

Malcolm lifted Clara's knuckles up to his mouth and kissed them. "I can give them a call, yeah?" he asked, admiring the way the ring looked on her finger. "We'll need witnesses you know. For the certificate. We could just ring them up, have them pop down for a visit, and have it all done at the registry office."

"We'll make a weekend out of it," Clara said, beaming. She didn't take her eyes off Malcolm's face, determined to rediscover him in a whole new light. _My fiancé... My fiancé, soon to be my husband._ "I've got the perfect dress in mind. The one I wore during our little at home karaoke night–the white one you soaked in gin, remember?"

"I remember, yes," Malcolm said, laughing. "I'll see if I can dig out that tux you drenched."

"I'd marry you in a bloody paper bag, just as long as I get to marry you."

He pressed his lips together, forcing back a laugh. "So just my mam and sister, then? No one else?"

Clara studied Malcolm's eyes closely, worrying her lip with another soft, thoughtful bite. "How about Sam? She's done so much for us. It's only right that she's there on a day that matters."

"I was hoping you'd mention Sam," Malcolm admitted. "She'd love to be there. I know it."

Pausing long enough to give Malcolm time to finish that sentence, Clara turned her head a little to the side and surveyed him carefully. "Did she buy the ring?" she asked.

"She may have gone out to find the best shop that would stay open late enough and put up with my shouting," Malcolm admitted, scratching at the back of his head. "But I bought it myself. Picked it out myself, too."

"I'm teasing you, Malcolm," she said.

"You should probably save that for later. Best keep some things for the honeymoon, yeah?"

"That sounds fair," she laughed. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"It does sound right," Malcolm said, kissing Clara's hand again. And it was.

 

Malcolm and Clara's vows, when it came time to say them in front of the exasperated registry worker, the teary-eyes of Mrs. Tucker and Louise Tucker, dry-eyed and wide-smiled Sam Cassidy, and the surprise guest of Glenn Cullen, were as sincere as they were straightforward. The only flair was the almost Sylvia Plath quote Clara couldn't resist adding in at the end. _"Some way, some how, can you understand me a little? Love me a little?"_

Malcolm stuck with the classics, settling on the standard oath and putting as much heart into every word, as if he were whispering them into Clara's ear while being wrapped in the tense, trembling nest of her arms. "I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, and as a symbol of our love. I promise to care for you, to respect and cherish you, throughout our lives together, now and always."

It wasn't until later that Clara got to say more to Malcolm on the subject of whispered vows and tender-hearted confessions. After the dinner her recently made mother-in-law treated her to, which Sam also attended but Glenn did not ("Better not risk it. This is far too close to Malcolm's inner circle than I thought I'd ever end up getting without sustaining life-altering injuries"), Clara and Malcolm headed home well fed and bright-eyed, with cheeks fit to burst from all the hideous amounts of grinning she had done for half the day.

In the backseat of the cab, holding onto Malcolm's hand and admiring the way the lampposts caught the light on their rings, Clara leaned her head down onto Malcolm's shoulder. "I can't promise to make an honest man out of you, but I _am_ happy to know you're legally mine."

Rather than responding, Malcolm kissed the top of Clara's head, stroking her hair in long, slow caresses. It made her want to sleep. But she couldn't. Not yet.

Clara lifted her head off his shoulder and pressed one hand against his chest to steady herself. She could feel Malcolm's heart beating bird-wing fast beneath her fingers, as if it were trapped and eager to be free.

 

* * *

 

As Malcolm carried Clara over the threshold into the house, she couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" he wondered, struggling valiantly to hoist her as far as he could with his thin, less than developed arms.

"I already _live here_ , Malcolm. You don't have to do this."

"Course I do, sweetheart. I meant it when I said I wanted to do right by you – and it starts here."

There was nothing Clara could say to that. Words of all kinds, sickly sweet or laced with carefully crafted romance, escaped her, flew completely clear from her mind to vanish in the almost impossible ether of this new-found, hard-sought bliss. Unable to speak, she cupped Malcolm's face in her hands, stroked his cheeks, and pulled him down hard for a kiss. She kissed her husband so hard she saw the stars. It was the first kiss of many, some even in the very same place the two of them now stood, lips locked and backs bent as if to bow in almighty awe of each other. Not a bad start to a marriage, all things considered.

Pity that they would have to wait almost seven years and skim the edges of a divorce before they got a chance for an actual honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent most of the past two weeks reading/editing this fic. Nothing major, just little things being cut, adjusted, cleared up, etc. It's still not perfect, but I figured I'd bumrush post the edited chapters over the next week or so, so the fic can be done, people can read/enjoy it, and I can finally move on to that damn original rewrite. Fic writing doesn't pay the bills, but writing sometimes can.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for continuity and other errors. I've been sick since July of last year and I'm struggling with lots of shit of late. At this point I'm in "I don't give a darn, just post the fic so people can read it" mode. Or, in emoji, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Clara very much thought that visiting Malcolm's mother, even with his sister and niece as surprise guest entrants, had been significantly less stressful than this little Sunday trip up to the Oswalds' would undoubtedly prove itself to be. It helped that visiting the Tuckers, what remained of them and what little could be gathered for a weekend trip, had been felt much more like a proper holiday, a way to get away from the chillingly airless, gasping atmosphere of London and their lives inside it. It had also helped that for a blissful stretch of almost forty-eight hours, Clara had been subjected to the rich charm of Glaswegian accents and more shortbread than she had ever encountered in her life.

She would not have nearly the same level of luck and pleasantness when heading to see her family. It was sure to be a bone-wearying chore, the likes of which Clara had been glad to put behind her, and Malcolm had yet to experience.

She explained all this to her husband as much as her energy would allow. He wasn’t exactly impressed.

"That's a rather bleak assumption," Malcolm said, peering down at her in the back of the taxi. The sky as a swollen, awful grey, the kind that promised rain in one quarter--the part they were heading towards -- and showed the setting sun in the other section. The section they were leaving behind. "And it's a poor one at that. What d'you think I fucking get up to all day?"

 _Things that make you wake up yelling from imaginary arguments_ , Clara wanted to say, but didn't. She would bring that sad fact up at another time, when they weren't hurtling towards their doom in the form of a family dinner. "Just... please, trust me on this, Malc," she argued, one hand up, her temper short, and her nerves worn down to a miserable, pitiful stub of patience. "You don't know my family. Not like I do--obviously."

"I do trust you," Malcolm said, his voice low, intending to soothe every tattered edge of her nerves. He ran a hand across the back of her shoulders, drawing her across the joined seating so they could sit side by side with no space in between. "And no, I don't know your family--at least, I don't know them beyond your panicky debriefings and little fetches of back-story."

Clara let herself laugh. One laugh couldn't hurt, but it certainly didn't help either. "Debriefings... I like that. Makes tonight sound like a battle strategy or something," she said. "And as we are absolutely walking into a minefield here, it’s more than a little appropriate."

"Blimey, I thought it was just dinner."

"It's both," Clara said, nodding once before she leaned her head against Malcolm's shoulder and let it rest on the long, flat surface. "With my family it is always, definitely both."

Glancing up at Malcolm in the silence that followed, Clara noted his patient, almost indulgent smile as he took in her words and gave back only his attention in return. How dare he look that relaxed. Didn't he know what they were getting into? Couldn't he _guess_?

"Stop smiling," she said, wishing she could take hold of Malcolm's face and fix its expression to match her own. "We're not going there to have fun. We're going there to put on a show and then get the hell out as fast as we can."

The pendulum of Clara's mood swung from despairing agony to a kind of smothering, aggressive command of every square millimeter of her body. She repeated tonight's rules quietly to herself. _No scowling and no fretting, worried looks of any kind. Not tonight. No clenched jaws, no knitted brows -- nothing that makes you look as sick as you feel._

The only expression Clara would accept of herself tonight was a look of peaceful, composed grace, like an ambassador stranded in a country that just declared war on her homeland. It was exactly how she felt, going back to see her family after spending the past several weeks locked up in the world she and Malcolm had created together. She was venturing out of that safety, leaving behind that loving, tender security newly found in his house-- _ours now, we share it_ \--to head back under a roof and a collection of four walls she had not seen since she was in university. As such, Clara was predictably terrified.

It was years since she last saw her whole family together instead of in individual, short increments. Holiday visits were usually held at her Gran's house outside of London mostly for its size--not that there were many Oswalds to accommodate, but they liked to put as much space in between each other as one house could provide, only venturing into each other's company for meals or the rare hallway encounter.

These customary appearances, brief though they were, required a full week's preparation before Clara felt she could manage them. The bedroom wall of her flat would be peppered with post-it notes full of pep talks-- _You can do this!--_ a small list of dos and don'ts-- _Do_ _listen quietly while Dad talks about the government; do_ not  _make eye contact with Linda for longer than it takes to blink--_ designed to prepare Clara for meeting her family gain. She never saved these notes, never thought to save them, and so every few weeks she would have to write out each little yellow square of wisdom whenever the holidays arrived. Her flatmates put up decorations, Clara wrote battle plans.

Just about the only blood relative Clara could tolerate being around was her grandmother, but as both women got older their weekly Sunday lunches turned into "come around when you remember it" run-ins. Beyond that, Clara had walled her heart to all invading ideas of what was _right_ and _good_ and _expected_ of her as a member of the Oswald family. Just because they were a technical family did not mean they were one in practice, and it was the deed that mattered more than the definition.

Clara far from fit the bill of a traditional or even a remotely conservative person--her university years and her marriage to both of Malcolm's character and age were a testament to that--but she did have this one sticking point off which she could not, would not budge. The loss of her mother had ripped out an integral part of the Oswalds home and heart, making a wound which had never properly healed as far as Clara was concerned. Jagged and raw was this sad, empty scar, taking on the distinct shape of Eleanor– _Ellie_ , always Ellie, even on her grave. Tall, long-limbed, with dark eyes like autumn gold and a smile as shy as it was kind, Ellie did not haunt the Oswald home as much as she did its inhabitants, and yet none was so plagued as her husband. Dave put forth a valiant effort to keep himself whole, smiled and worked and went through all the motions of a widower rebuilding himself from the wreckage, but he had last an irretrievable part of himself when Ellie was left in her grave. The coffin didn't just belong to her, but it was his own resting place, too.

“That wasn't the worst part, though,” Clara said, relaying this all to Malcolm in a digestible form as she clung to his hand. His other arm was still slung around her back, stroking her left shoulder in a slow, steady caress. “The absolute worst part was he didn't even give up. Not in the way most people do when someone they love dies. He just... stopped, like all the life in him had run out with her. He wasn't angry, he wasn't sad, wasn't broken, he just... wasn't.”

Clara closed her eyes. “He was gone,” she continued. Her voice warbled like a theremin. “Mum died and then a part of Dad followed her too. I lost them both, but Dad was still there. Technically.”

Malcolm's hand tightened around Clara's cold, small fingers. Only Malcolm could coax the truth from her like this, could play her pain in all its rude, unpolished chords and scales. Out of love and respect for this process, Clara carried on speaking even though every word made her crack along the bone-thin seams.

“Gran came to live with us for a while. She said it was to help Dad with me, but I knew better that. She did it for Dad, to make sure he didn't fall apart on me.”

“Did it help?” Malcolm asked, quiet and attentive.

Clara removed her head from his shoulder and shifted, putting space between them again. She leaned her head against the window, the frosty glass like winter's kiss on her skin. The chill helped with the heated sting that came along with her thoughts. Remembering was kinder than thinking, in Clara's opinion. Memories didn't carry the same grim weight as a present, active thought. But Clara was always thinking, couldn't _stop_ thinking, especially on things long gone and dead and the people along with them, and so her memories were just as vivid as they were vicious, with no chance to rest.

She knew that Malcolm was the same, that his mind was always active, alert, and ever in agony for it. Clara loved him for this, in the way two survivors nee victims could love each other for knowing just how deep a wound could go, and being able to trace the faults, fractures, and fury of particular aches.

“Clara?” With his arm now removed from her back, he reached out with that hand now, offering his own instead of taking hers.

Clara stared out the window at the little flecks of rain that started to trickle from the sky. Not quite a proper rain, yet nowhere near a downpour thankfully. “It might have worked,” she said, pushing away from the window and settling against Malcolm once more. “He brought Linda home soon after Gran moved in–but that was probably a coincidence. I'd like to think it was. Dad's not aggressive enough to give slights like that.”

Malcolm’s lips were in her hair, kissing the glossy flat strands. His touch gave her strength.

“Gran left without needing to be asked, and I followed soon after. Well, I didn't _leave_ but I didn't spend much time at home either. It was that age, you know.”

“Where did you go?” Malcolm asked, his voice a warm hum above her ear.

“Amy's and Rory's. Amy was usually _with_ Rory, so they were a sort of packaged deal. But I knew that I couldn't always be the third wheel, so back then I, er... I stayed at John's mostly.” She tried not to bring up the name much since the appointment some weeks back, not because Malcolm didn't wish to discuss him, but because she found herself tripping over the name. It felt awkward in her mouth, like a pill she could no longer stomach and instead let melt into bitter waste on her tongue.

“The doctor?” Malcolm asked, stroking the side of Clara's hand with his thumb.

She nodded. “His aunt was like a sister to my mum–I even grew up calling her auntie. Wasn’t too happy when I found out the truth, but I got over it. Eventually.” She paused. “Back then I wanted family to mean people related to you by blood. I never wanted to find my family. John helped with that, too.”

 _John._ _Strange to think he could have meant so much not so long ago, could have done so much to take the sting out of her life, only to add in a new wound of his own making._ John was a dream, just a dream, the kind you fall into when the noise in your brain takes over its capacity to sort it out. John was the rush of liquor on a tongue eager for fun. _A moment, just a moment, not a destination._

Clara closed her eyes again, not to remember but to imagine these days and faces and the whirl of color and heat and happiness contained within them. _Just a moment of happiness, not a lasting state or the means to make it._ _She had that with Malcolm. Didn’t she?_

“I don't want to go home,” she said.

“I know, Clara.”

She took a breath. Each gasp and sigh was like a shield. Steel formed over her skin and bones, brittle and bruised as they were. Her mask slid into place with all the finality of a needle dragging through a record’s tread. “So why are we going there? Remind me. I know I told you before. Now say it back to me.”

It wasn't that Clara couldn't be brave without Malcolm, but the sound of his voice and the fury of his heart had a way of reminding her that there was strength buried inside her as well. Dread wasn't the only thing she had in spades to spare, but she had a courage, leonine and fierce, that was a source not tapped nearly as often as its richness deserved.

Malcolm's lips were on Clara's cheeks in a trice, his hand no longer holding onto her own but now combing through her hair, pulling her head slowly, softly back. “Kill two birds with the same well-thrown stone,” he said. “You're overdue in seeing them and they're due to actually see _me–_ not that I agree with that last part,” he added in a quick undertone, unable to stop himself. “It means absolute fuck all to me if they know who I am, but–”

“Malcolm.”

“Stick to the script, don't fluff the part, yeah, got it,” he said. He kissed her cheek again, his lips moving in a caress that slid like silk. “Right. You want to get the little tete-a-fucking-tete out of the way while it's still early on, so they can't argue later that you kept us from them. And if you _are_ withholding something from them–and you are, make no mistake about that–then you're only doing it because you want to keep us safe. Or was it secret?”

“It was both.” Clara nodded, looking down at her hands and the empty ring finger as well. It felt so bare and small without the usual band of gold there. Her shorn and chewed-on nails were even more pitiful now that she didn't have the ring to distract from them.

Her fingers pulled at the thin gnarled back of Malcolm's hand just as the cab made the last turn before their destination, seeking the warm support of his touch once more. It was hers within seconds. It was always hers.

“Thank you.”

He held her hand tighter, and said nothing. 

 

* * *

 

“Aren't you old.”

This, of course, was said by Linda the instant she opened the door and looked up to see Malcolm. No _hello_ , no _nice to see you_ –nothing but an insult from the get go.

A muscle below Clara's left eye twitched as she watched Linda lift her hand not to shake Malcolm's but to take a long, judgmental swig from her drink. She slid aside without another word and let them pass into the front room, her eyes glittering as she looked Malcolm up and down.

“You must be Linda,” Malcolm said as he grinned, all teeth and no warmth. His smile was pinned to his mouth like nails driven into thin, hungry skin.

“Heard of me?”

“There were a few warnings, yes.” And that was all he would say to her.

Clara's father chose that moment to enter the room; Malcolm's smile became much more polite as he introduced himself to his father-in-law, his eyes sparkling with a subdued, jovial gleam.

“Pleased to meet you, Malcolm,” Mr. Oswald said as he offered his hand. Linda rolled her eyes in a slow drawl that went unnoticed by her husband. “I'm David–but I'm sure Clara's said as much. Have you met–?”

Linda strolled out of the room after she replaced her glass of wine with the house wireless phone. The room grew warmer in Linda's absence, but the silence was a choking weight, like a heavy dead hand frozen stiff and limp on the backs of everyone present.

Clara linked her arm through Malcolm's and smiled at her father. “I forgot that Linda has a set length of time before she has to physically remove herself from a room,” she said, her voice too bright, too cheerful, clashing completely with the words that spilled from her pale, painted mouth.

“Be nice, Clara,” Mr. Oswald said, his voice mechanic, automatic. That’s all she ever heard in her teen years. _Be nice._ “Dinner's about ready; you're just in time. Clearly you didn't get that from me. That'll be her mum–I mean, Ellie. I mean...”

When Mr. Oswald laughed he sounded like the way a car's windscreen glass looks when smashed in a head-on collision. Not exactly broken, but something far worse: punctured and ruptured. Even Malcolm, unaccustomed to the sound or to this hollowed man, felt a strange, undeniable pity.

Clara's hand tightened on Malcolm's sleeve, a plea made in bent bones and strained skin. “Let's hang our coats up, yeah?” she said, tugging on his arm until he followed her out of the room and into the hall that led to the back stretch of the house.

The hall was lit only by the pale slanted squares of weak grey sunlight just barely passing through the windows of the rooms that lined the corridor–a guest room, a bathroom, something that could have been an office if it had any furniture. Clara came to a stop in front of a small brass handle that jutted out from the plain white wall, snatching the little bit of metal in her hand. Everything in the hall was white, the sort of crisp, pure absence of color that almost demanded to be stained. It made Clara nervous, these walls–no pictures hung on them, nor were they decorated by any little bits of art that might suggest the characters of the people who called this house a home. The walls of hers and Malcolm's home were heavily occupied by framed signs of life of all kinds, silly bits of art or photographs, “came with the frame” family and friends for which they invented long-winded, highly ridiculous life stories when they were bored and nights were long and their spirits were buoyant.

Clara groped for the light switch hidden inside the narrow sliver of closet and tore the coat off her back like it was the skin of a hated, thrashing thing. Her teeth were bared, hands shaking, and she trembled with a violence that could scream if her heart had a mouth of its own.

When Clara turned to relieve Malcolm of his own coat, having already hung up her own next to the empty plastic preserve usually zipped up around wedding dresses, she walked right into his grasp.

Holding Clara's face gently between two long large hands, Malcolm bent his head and pressed another kiss to the little knotted crease on Clara's forehead, then bent lower still to kiss the fold on the bridge of her nose. He breathed in slowly through his lips, a little gasp of air done in near silence as if to draw out the worry and wrath from Clara's skin up into the roots of his, where it had a head start home.

Malcolm was not a man to fuss, would much rather pound all problems into a psychological submission than pore over them like rare gold and gems, but for Clara he made a certain exception. For Clara alone he quietly labored lovingly over her and all her jagged, gnarled nerves, her unease that one day might just manifest itself as an ulcer or something far worse, something permanent and deeply buried, incurable but not beyond treating.

Clara curled her fingers around Malcolm's wrists as he moved his lips back up to her forehead, kissing it once again now that it was free from folds and worries and other pensive lines of all kinds. Would he ever stop touching her like this? Gentle, loving, a way to say what words could not quite express?

“Don't listen to Linda,” Clara said. “She isn't happy unless she's making someone else miserable.”

“As one would expect of a woman who uses vinegar in her routine fucking dialysis,” Malcolm said, stroking Clara's face gently as he held it between his hands.

She tilted her head back to peer at him, the light leaking out from the closet making his eyes seem all the brighter, like gleaming shards of ice beneath the recently cut sweep of his greying hair. “Come on,” she said, unhooking her fingers to give Malcolm's chest a flat-handed pat. “Off with the coat and into the kitchen. Might as well pass the sitting room on our way in. Gran's probably there reading."

As it turned out, her grandmother _wasn't_ there--someone else was.

"Sarah Jane?" The familiar dark hair and focused, clear eyes made Clara stop dead.

A tall, dark haired woman in her late forties stood up from the sofa, closing the book she had been reading with a sharp sudden snap. She spared Malcolm a look that lasted long enough to indicate an introduction was unnecessary, but an explanation would be bloody welcome, before she set her warm eyes on Clara.

"Surprise!" Sarah Jane said, grinning. "So good to see you again. It's been ages, hasn't it?"

Clara took Sarah Jane's hands when she was offered them, then found herself pulled into a warm, back-cracking hug that made her sway. "Since--graduation, I think?" she choked, digging her chin into Sarah Jane's shoulder as they embraced. Her voice had gone hysterically high again, like a bird singing madly as it tore itself to bones and bloody feathers by beating against the bars of its cage.

"And you must be Malcolm." Sarah Jane held out her hand after Clara broke off and took a step back. Her eyes searched Malcolm's face without indicating a hint of the thoughts at work behind her own.

In response to his name uttered in this tone, which belied Sarah Jane's polite mask and was laced clear through like a needle dipped in venom, Malcolm's smile slipped too far up one edge of his face, becoming a smirk. The sickle-wide arch made him look mocking and cruel. Luckily his own tone saved him; when he spoke his voice gentle, curious. "You're the one with the nephew, yes? John, was it?" he asked. "Brilliant lad, a real dab hand at his craft. You must be proud."

Sarah Jane's lips pressed into a line so thin her mouth almost seemed to vanish from her face. "John did mention you, but that's not how I know you," she said.

Malcolm went immediately cold and still, like a hand curling into a fist. He dropped Sarah Jane's hand and continued to gaze at her, his expression dark with a cloud that hid his thoughts, making veils and dust of his eyes.

Clara rounded on Sarah Jane, her voice hoarse. "Please don't say anything," she whispered. "I _hope_ you haven't said anything to any of them already." She gripped the older woman's arms in a grasp like iron. So why was Clara the one who felt trapped and caught? "You didn't, right?"

"I didn't, no."

Clara searched Sarah Jane's eyes. "Are you lying to make me feel better?"

It was both a tremendous relief and then an awful slug of guilt did Clara see Sarah Jane look offended. Relief because Clara knew she had been speaking the truth -- guilt because Clara had to question the truth at all.

"No! Now honestly, Clara, you certainly know me better than to think I would put a _spin_ on something like that.”

Her words only made Clara hold on tighter. Not in a plea, not the way she had taken Malcolm's hand back in the cab, but at a silent sort of insistence. _Keep being honest. Don't start lying to me now._ "And since we're on the subject of who knows who better," Clara said, "You will have no trouble agreeing with me when I say that of the people present in this room, I'm the only one who can say she knows Malcolm best. Let me do the talking tonight. About Malcolm, I mean. Forget everything you think you've heard about him before now and remember him exactly as I say from here on. Have you got that?”

Sarah Jane shook with silent laughter. “Might I express just a _fraction_ of concern at that phrasing, Clara?” she asked.

“You just have, so I wouldn't bother going much further,” Clara said, letting go and stepping back so that she stood side by side with Malcolm. His arm moved through hers this time, coiling around Clara's shorter reach until he found her hand and in a slow, graceful fold they wove their fingers together. Emboldened by the contact, Clara pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin a fraction higher than it usually was, and let Sarah Jane look them over in silent, somewhat reluctant acceptance.

“Well you make an…. uncommon couple, I will say that much,” Sarah Jane said, folded her arms over her chest and smiling at Clara.

“Thank you,” Clara said.

“And thanks for holding back the obvious cradle-robbing crypt-keeping comments,” Malcolm added, grinning without showing his teeth. He looked far more handsome this way; Clara's heart stuttered as she turned to look up at him.

“I wasn't thinking that at all,” Sarah Jane said, clearly puzzled. She looked at Clara for clarification.

“Linda gave Malcolm a typical reception at the door earlier,” Clara said. “And I think Dad blanched a bit at the sight of him. I can't be sure but he just might have been expecting a man closer to my age than this.”

“Ah,” Sarah Jane said, pressing her lips down tight again.

Silence passed, breaking the tension as if a fever were breaking up and drifting away, taking the pervasive influence of its illness with it. Though Malcolm couldn't exactly be _relaxed_ in Sarah Jane's presence, he did put up a noble effort. It was obvious to all present in the room that his distrust, and at times burning vitriol, for members of the press was too deeply embedded to undo for a single evening – even if Sarah Jane _did_ repeatedly stress that her columns were all about advances in modern science and had very little to do with politics.

“Every bit of printed word can trace its fucking entrails back to politics, Mrs. Smith,” Malcolm said, his voice still pleasant despite the colorful language that had seeped in at last. “There's an agenda behind everything, from the fringe bits of wasted space at the bottom of one page to those op-ed write in landscapes of mental decay.”

“And you would certainly know that better than either of us, Malcolm,” Sarah Jane replied – not unkindly, but her voice was far from warm. She moved her eyes on to Clara after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Margaret's in the kitchen,” she said, referring to Clara's grandmother. “Said something about a... pudding recipe that fell behind the cabinets?”

Clara tried to laugh but couldn't. “It slipped down there by accident years ago,” she said for Malcolm's benefit, though he hadn't said a word. Perhaps he was too busy yelling silently at Sarah Jane to trust himself to speak just yet. “She tries to dig it out each time she visits. I think it's moved about a foot since she started back in 1996.”

An idea struck Clara as she finished this statement, and with a bright, dazzling smile fixed in place she turned to peer up at Malcolm. “Well? Go in there and help. Put those knobby fingers of yours to use. And say hello while you're at it. That's always nice.”

Malcolm knew this was just an excuse to get him out of the room and put a bit of breathing distance between him and Sarah Jane. He also knew he would much rather dig around inside bits of dust and kitchen crumbs than stand for one more second in the company of a journalist.

“It's just next door,” Clara said, taking advantage of his amicable silence and pushing her hands flat on his chest to nudge him out of the room. “Follow the smells, you'll get there in the end.”

Malcolm left without saying a word, a rarity for him. He did, however, leave with a grin that made Clara's heart smack hard against her ribs. This didn't escape Sarah Jane's notice.

“Clara, may I ask you a question?” she said once they were alone. Her voice was like cold water thrown over the little spark of Clara's happiness.

Clara steeled herself. She studied the older woman quickly, her eyes ticking back and forth over the gentle but admirably composed face. How often had Clara wished that she could be her true aunt? How often had she also wished that Sarah Jane might end up as her new mother, until Linda blustered in and disappointed every dream the younger Clara had ever dared to have.

Reminding herself that questions often required verbal answers, or at the very least a nod, Clara took a breath and did both. “I suppose you can, yeah,” she said, nodding. She even shrugged a little, to make it seem as if she weren't the least bit terrified about what was going to come next.

“Do you have any idea who that man is?”

 _My husband._ “I do, yes.”

Sarah Jane folded her arms again, assuming the stance like a pillar and not out of a means of defense. “And how long _have_ you known?” she pressed.

“Do you mean how long I've known him as a person, or how long have I known what he does for a living?” Clara asked, careful to make the two parts into distinctly separate matters so Sarah Jane might not make the mistake again.

Who Malcolm became when he went to work was not the Malcolm that Clara knew, much less the one she loved. _Pity him, but don't praise him. Look after him, but don't love him – not like you love the real him buried beneath._ The scourge of press releases and newscasters everywhere was more like a host that assumed control of Malcolm's face and thoughts and voice and body for long, worrying stretches of time day to day, week in and week out. It was a parasitic abduction that Clara did not understand, did not in the least bit like, but could not rid him of. Not until he decided to quit. She could only be there to talk Malcolm out of the fit when he came back home again, just like he coaxed her from the jagged, tearing edge of her anxieties.

“I mean both,” Sarah Jane said. “Hard to separate the two when one is so demanding and the other is so... well-suited for it.”

Clara hid her disappointment. “A couple of months,” she said, delivering the lie with no effort at all. It was really more like a couple of _weeks_ , but Sarah Jane didn't have to know that. No one under this roof did, as a matter of fact. Malcolm wasn't the only one capable of diverting truths as he saw fit.

Sarah Jane looked at Clara full on, her gaze containing all the exact precision of a scalpel. “Are you happy with him?” she asked.

“I fancy him quite a bit, yeah.”

Sarah Jane shook her head. “That wasn't what I meant.”

“So say that then,” Clara countered, a gentle challenge–but a challenge all the same. “You know the point, now get to it.”

If she had said this to her parents, Clara would have instantly regretted the words and wished nothing more than to shrivel up and die after speaking them. But Sarah Jane was different from her detached, phantom-like father, and far more kind than Linda could even delude herself into pretending. When Clara was younger and Sarah Jane was something of a surrogate parent for the girl, Sarah Jane never once chastised her for these moments of willfulness, nor did she entertain outdated silly notions about lady-like temperaments and how to abide by them. Clara's temper was something Sarah Jane almost encouraged, provided it was set within an understandable limit: “ _Swear if you must, shout only when it feels right, and above all,_ listen _to the other person's argument, even if it's only to find the flaws._ ”

“Are you happy being with a man like that?” Sarah Jane asked. “I mean beyond whatever it is that brings you together as a couple. Are you happy knowing what he _does_ , how he... behaves?”

“You make him sound like a criminal.”

“Not too far off the mark, the way I hear it.”

“Rubbish,” Clara said, only because she didn't want to swear just then. “He would never. And before you go and make another thin-lipped almost scowl at me, Sarah Jane, just–just shut up and let me finish.”

Sarah Jane looked at the finger Clara brandished at her with raised eyebrows. She said nothing.

“Yes, I am happy. I'm the happiest I've been since my mum died,” Clara said, surprised at how her voice and her hand could stay so steady. “I'm happier than when I was with John. I'm happy knowing that Malcolm cares about his party to make sure the people in it aren't always coming off as hopelessly inept, which... alright, maybe they are. But he _knows_ they can be better. They have to be. And he's the one who pushes them for that. I'm happy knowing he's focused and dedicated enough to understand the responsibility on his and the rest of the government's backs, even though it can also be a thankless, worthless chore.

“I'm happy knowing that I've finally landed a relationship with a man who's pulling in a steady income _and_ has no illegal vices to speak of–and that's not exactly a common thing,” she added, wetting her lips as she paused to take a quick breath. “Usually it's a choice between one or the other, you see. And I'm happy that I don't have to make the ever so _un_ happy choice between a partner with a job, who just so happens to also have a crippling pill addiction, or a person who refuses to even touch a bottle of cooking sherry, but can't be arsed to get themselves off the couch long enough to Hoover up the crisp crumbs.”

Sarah Jane shook her head again. “I don't ask this to hector you, Clara dear. You're not my daughter–and I certainly don't pretend to be your mother.” She hesitated. Clara waited, knowing what was to come next. “But you're as good as a daughter to me and you always have been, you know that. I want you to be careful... And cared for, naturally.”

A muscle ticked in Clara’s cheek. “Have you given the John the same advice lately?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Her heart was beating wildly, making her fingers shake. She tightened them around her arms, hiding them inside of her fists so the quaking was less obvious. “Because if anyone could use a chat on how to look after others, it's him.”

“Point taken,” Sarah Jane said, sighing. “And yes, you know I have. Just like you know all the good _that_ does.”

“It goes in one ear and then it's lost inside his head,” Clara said as she laughed, a flat, bloodless sound. “It really is a miracle he got through medical school with a mind like his–you know that, don't you?”

“Yes, and as Malcolm pointed out, I am absolutely proud of John's accomplishments.” Sarah Jane hesitated. It was her first sign of unease the whole evening so far. “He's been talking about you lately,” she said.

 _God, I could use a drink._ “Anything nice?”

“Oh, the usual. Just reflective little comments here and there.” Sarah Jane chewed on her lip and lowered her eyes, not quite meeting Clara's anymore. “Tasha's gone, if you care to know.”

She didn't. “Well that's...” she stopped herself from lying again. It wasn't sad. It wasn't good, either. Nor did Clara really care at all. “That's something.”

“I'll tell him you said hello when I see him next,” Sarah Jane said, attempting a smile and a brighter mood to combat the shadow that had fallen between them.

“I'd rather you didn't,” Clara said in the kind of voice that mimics the swift, sudden stabs of knives.

Sarah Jane nodded, saying nothing. “Have you... heard from Amy and Rory lately?” she asked after a pause.

Despite her friend's best efforts, Clara only felt colder and dark, like a withered, shrunken star. “No. I haven't.”

“Oh. They've–they've been asking about you as well,” Sarah Jane said. She cleared her throat. “They miss you.”

“Do they?” Clara wanted to believe this. She chose to believe it, not seeing the harm.

“Yes. Especially Amy.”

Clara's heart cracked clean apart at that. “I've been meaning to call again,” she said, but before she could get very far into that sentence, Sarah Jane cut her off.

“So get to it,” she said, politely waving away whatever penitent excuse Clara was about to craft. “They're your friends. You can't shut them out forever. And quite frankly, they came first.”

 _She talks about me like I’m something to pass between people,_ Clara thought, seething. _First Amy and Rory. Then John. Now Malcolm._ “I didn't shut them out,” Clara argued, her temper flaring up again. “I'm not the one who put an entire bloody ocean and a new country and an ' _I never want to speak to you again until the end of recorded fucking time'_ veto on further conversations, am I?”

“I know what Amy said to you. Just like I know what she _meant_ to say–and so do you.”

Clara closed her eyes, counted backwards from thirteen, and opened them again once she was sure she could trust herself to speak and breathe calmly.

“I still don't understand where she got off saying she was disappointed with _me_ ,” she said, listening to the distant sounds coming from the kitchen. Malcolm must have told a joke of some kind, because Gran–Margaret–was all but singing with laughter, a noise that was soon followed by the deep, awkward chuckle that could only have meant Clara's father was present as well. “I didn't do anything wrong–certainly nothing worth losing two of my best mates.”

“They lost you too, when they moved–you _and_ John. And though I know he's not your favorite subject at the moment... You must remember that Amy has stood by John her entire life, no matter what he's done–or failed to do,” Sarah Jane said, her voice hushed, expression loaded with regret. “Did it never occur to you that she hoped you loved him enough to do the same?”

“Did it never occur to Amy that I think it's safer to love myself more than I love someone else?” Clara countered.

Quite unexpectedly, Sarah Jane smiled, a wide beaming sort of grin that made Clara feel all knocked out of sorts. “I'm happy to hear you say that,” she said, almost swelling with the kind of pride that made Clara immediately understand the other woman had taken her comment and applied it to something very different.

 _She thinks I'm predicting my future with Malcolm. That I'll end up choosing myself over him and what we have each and every time._ Clara didn't want to dislodge Sarah Jane of this notion, seeing as it made her so visibly excited–but Clara also wasn't happy knowing this thoroughly wrong idea was there, ripe for the taking and immediate destroying. If she had the nerve to do it.

 _Crush it. Get rid of it._ It was a lie that Clara didn't need on her conscience, and certainly one she didn't want to have applied to the one thing in her life that was starting to make life exciting again.

“Let what I say next close the topic from here until the next... two hundred years, okay?” she began, not waiting for Sarah Jane's confirmation before she carried on. “I chose myself over John because he had already made a choice long before I realized Tasha was even around–and I clearly wasn't part of that choice. I didn't stand by or fight for John because there wasn't anything left to fight for,” Clara heard herself say, staring down at the floor. It felt suddenly too far away, as if she were rising up and detaching from her own body to crawl on the ceiling overhead. “But that's not how things are now. Things _won't_ be like that ever again. Not with Malcolm. I know it because I know what I have with Malcolm is – it's different. It matters.”

Sarah Jane thought about this for a while. “And what about Amy and Rory?” she asked.

“Of course they matter. They've always mattered.”

“So _tell them_ ,” Sarah Jane said, reaching out to give Clara's tense, arched shoulders a comforting pat and squeeze. It got her to relax immediately, as did all of Sarah Jane's touches. “Rory would absolutely love to hear from you again. And Amy has already forgiven you a hundred times over, if you just gave her a chance to say it.”

“Amy would never say it,” Clara argued quietly, smiling as she thought of her dearest, loudest friend. “She would need Rory to interpret for her.”

“So?”

“So... I'll ring them tomorrow, when it's not the middle of the night for them. I'll try. That much I can promise.”

As if sensing her step-daughter's slowly rebuilding happiness, Linda chose this moment to breeze into the room on her way into the kitchen. The phone was still clutched in her hand, and she had an even more sour expression locked onto her face.

“Still hiding in here?” Linda muttered, eyeing Sarah Jane.

“I wouldn't call having a conversation hiding, Linda,” Sarah Jane said, her tone frigid.

Linda left without saying another word, but she lingered long enough to shoot Sarah Jane's back a withering glare. Clara was glad she didn't catch it.

Unfolding her arms, Clara mashed one of her hands into a fist and ground it against the palm of the other, a nervous, fidgeting sort of mortar and pestle made of skin and bone. “We'd better get in there,” she said, nodding towards the kitchen. “Wouldn't want to leave Malcolm to Linda for too long without a buffer zone.”

Sarah Jane stared at Clara, politely astonished. “He isn't _really_ as violent as people say, is he?”

“Not in a physical sense, no,” Clara said. “But vocally? Yes. Absolutely.”

Knowing full well and not at all caring that Sarah Jane might quietly begin to doubt her judgement, Clara felt herself slip into a broad, proud smile. The thought of Malcolm unleashing the full force of his furious vernacular on her step-mother was just about the happiest one she'd had since he'd kissed her in front of the hall closet.

Fortunately all Sarah Jane had to say on the subject was a muttered remark. Not even a rude one at that. “Well he _is_ Scottish,” she said, half to herself.

Clara laughed for the first time all evening.

  ~~~~

* * *

Once they were all assembled into the kitchen – which was really more of an expanded dining room _plus_ a kitchen, the doorway having been knocked down to make access between both rooms easier to manage – Clara took her usual seat at the table next to her grandmother. She grabbed at Malcolm's arm as she passed, dragging him into the empty seat to her left. He obliged this rough handling without comment, but his eyebrows did swoop forwards and down into a trademark scowl.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

Clara nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Perfect. Really. Everything's fine.”

Once Clara had let go of his arm, letting him gain the feeling back in his hand, she compromised by holding that very same hand under the table once he let it drop to his lap. Malcolm glanced down at her hand with a curious frown, puzzled by her raw, clutching grasp that he tried his best to soothe with gentle strokes of his thumb up and down her small hand.

“I fetched that paper your Gran was after,” he said under his breath, knowing any talk at all would be best to distract Clara. “I found a few little snapshots of a younger you while I was down there,” he added, his eyebrows lifting up on his forehead as he gave Clara a long, thoughtful look.

“Which I hope you left on the counter in the kitchen and did not stash into your pocket for future blackmailing purposes.”

“You could hope that if you'd like,” Malcolm said. “I won't come right out and stop you–not in so many words to derail your little faith brigade, of course, but–”

Clara leaned into him, shaking her head. “Shut up,” she mumbled, hiding her laugh.

And so Malcolm did – but only for a few seconds. Wetting his lips with a quick sip of water, he then launched into a rather odd, but somehow strangely exciting recitation of how he had returned the dusty age-worn prize to Margaret for safekeeping. But the way Malcolm told it, the simple story somehow took on the dimensions of an epic, Arthurian fetch question, something Edmund Spenser might have written and later redacted from _The Faerie Queen._

Even Sarah Jane couldn't help but listen in to Malcolm's tale, smiling slightly with her head tilted to the side as she considered this unexpected display. Clara almost wanted to gloat. _See? Not every story he tells has to be an ugly one,_ _s_ he thought to say, but she knew better than to let the words out of her head.

As Dave carried out the dishes to load up the table, talking down every attempt Sarah Jane, Clara, and even Malcolm made to stand up and offer help, Margaret flattened the page Malcolm had retrieved for her out on the table with a tremulous, bird-bone thin hand. She ignored Linda's soft tut and muttered, “ _Unsanitary_ ,” as she looked over the page, reading from top to bottom in a long, lingering sweep of her watery eyes.

“Anything nice, Gran?” Clara asked, leaning in to take a peek at the page.

Margaret twitched the sheet away at the last second, smiling sidelong at Clara. “Of course it is,” she said. “I'm hoping to make it into a gift, once I'm sure this is the right draft. It's hard to keep track of them, you know. Not every page I find turns out to be quite how I remembered.”

Judging by the distant look in her eyes and the way her smile had turned itself into something sad, Clara could guess that whatever was written on the page was incredibly personal. Maybe this wasn't a recipe at all, but a loose sheaf that had come undone from a diary of some kind, one she had brought with her when she first moved in after Ellie's death, and lost in the inevitable shuffle and sway of moving back out again. Clara gave her grandmother's arm a warm squeeze before she turned her attention to the rest of the table.

Malcolm, Clara, and Margaret sat with their backs to the wall on the left-hand side of the table, in that order. On the right side of the table, seated below a shelf where greeting cards, empty picture frames, and unlit candles stood sentinel, Sarah Jane had taken a seat across from Clara. Unfortunately this put her next to Linda, who sat on her right.

They got along well enough for two women who would much rather spit acid than share a polite conversation with each other, and were chatting quietly as dinner was slowly served, and sampled by those present at the table. But once Dave joined the table for good, Sarah Jane and Linda barely had a word left to spare for each other. They'd exhausted their entire supply for an amicable conversation and resorted instead to the truce of strained silence.

Dinner commenced in this tense fashion, polite and subdued. The silence was broken occasionally only by the clink of forks and knives on plates, the soft thud of glasses being lowered down to rest on clothed wood, and the small bits of chatter that rose up between each bite. But like all terms of peace in the Oswald house, it wasn't meant to last.

“How did you two meet?” Dave asked, his smile a forgettable twist of lips that looked more like a nervous twitch than an actual expression.

“At a Tesco,” Malcolm said.

Even Linda couldn't find a way to mock that. “Is that so?” she asked.

Only Clara noticed the way Malcolm grew just the slightest bit more tense when addressing her step-mum. “Yes. Clara was buying–what was it, milk?” he asked, turning to her for confirmation. She nodded. “For a soufflé, I think. It was for some food – pudding was involved, I remember that much. Well, the milk didn't make it out of the store with her–didn't make it out of the case, honestly. We both turned, got into bit of an accident, nothing serious, but once it was all cleaned up we left as new acquaintances. I expect even she would agree that's far better.”

“Don't speak for me, sweetheart,” Clara said around her fork, gently nudging Malcolm's arm. “You still haven't had one of my soufflés. There's a chocolate one I've been keeping a closely guarded secret for some time now.”

Malcolm stared at her, taking in the flash of her dark eyes and the smirk on her lips. Judging by the look he was giving her, a sort of smoldering, heavy stare, Clara thought Malcolm found her far more tantalizing than she had a right to be in that moment. Or was it just the fact that they always found it hard to keep their flirting beyond fire-kindling levels, having gotten so used to being among their own company that it didn't take long for such playful banter to turn into kisses, into touches, into far more crude bodily explorations?

“Are you threatening me with puddings?”

“Just might be, yeah.”

“Look at you two,” Linda crooned, her eyes narrowing. She spoke the way a butcher might soothe the calf whose throat it's about to slit. “Tell me, Malcolm – have you brought Clara around to see your family? Or are they not aware?”

Malcolm made a slow gentle show of cutting his portion of roast beef (medium rare, still bloody and pink like a slab of tender skin) into small, edible squares before he considered answering. Every bend of his arms and steady sawing glide of his hands back and forth over the soft flesh was as deliberate an act of disgust as if he'd thrown the most crude, brutal epithets at Linda. The lapse between Linda's question and Malcolm's reply made the whole table squirm – except for Margaret, who was merely smiling in a tiny, wicked way as she studied Malcolm side-long.

“My mother, my sister, and my niece have all met Clara,” he said, chewing as slowly as he could, not to savour the taste but to make an exaggerated show of how little he cared to join Linda in her attempt at a conversation. By drawing her attention to his face and to the motions that played across there, she had no choice but to notice the way he scowled whenever their eyes met, or the way that his gaze turned cold and pale as it pinned itself to her face.

“And your father?” Linda pressed.

“Doesn't meet much of anyone these days,” Malcolm said, “seeing as he's dead.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Malcolm wouldn't let her get away with it. “Are you?” he asked, turning his head slowly to the side as he studied her, not quite glaring but damned near close to it.

As Malcolm offered no more on the subject, silence rose up again to swallow the table. Sarah Jane caught Clara's eye and the plea hidden within her dark brown gaze. That was all she needed to come to the younger woman's aid.

“So Clara, what was it you were telling me about Malcolm's work? You didn't quite finish that thought.”

Not knowing about the conversation that had taken place between the two women, Malcolm was not exactly pleased by this line of questioning. Clara could feel his tense, barbed curiosity creeping across the entire room, like a fog that invades and pervades without any of the targets being the wiser until they were trapped in the snares of his temper.

 _Trust me,_ she wanted to say to him. _Trust me and trust my faith in Sarah Jane, if you can't trust the woman directly. Trust me the way you ask me without words every day to trust you, trust you each time I watch you walk out the door and head off to Number Ten. Trust me to pull myself back from this. Trust that I can recover and repair, the way I trust you to come back as the man I know, even if you leave as someone else._

Clara took a long, fortifying sip of her wine, wished it were something less sweet and far more tart, to match her sour mouth hardened with a similar tongue. She then launched into the story she had pored over carefully for days, glad to give it a chance to shine – however weak a story it was.

“Well – like I was saying, Malcolm... travels quite a lot. He's been all over, I think, judging by the stories he tells me. Sometimes I can go a few days without seeing him – though he is careful to keep in touch,” she began, touching on a few basic truths.

It wasn't a total lie, not really. Malcolm _did_ travel quite a bit–in the sense that he was always on the move swooping down among departments, hounding cabinet ministers who got just a bit too far off the line. And as he was often required to accompany the Prime Minister on ruthlessly vital foreign press tours, Clara felt that making this unhappy facet of Malcolm's job the key focus of her invention was a bit genius on her part. Clever, almost crafty.

“What do you do?” Dave asked, shooting Malcolm an apologetic look as he did so.

“I write mostly,” Malcolm said, picking up on the hair-thin thread of Clara's plot and sticking to it: just the basics, simple and trite. Clara could have kissed him then and there if she didn't think half the table would reject with a horrified recoil.

And then he continued. “But there's also a fair bit of shouting and thinly-veiled threats to keep the lower grunts in line, you know. Typical _‘Verbal beatings shall continue until moral very much improves'_ pep-talks. The usual office-encased drudgery. I'm something of a sheep herder in that regard–a communications director, if you'd like.”

Clara almost dropped her wine glass.

A little pause followed this remark. Linda peered curiously around the rim of her glass at Malcolm, whereas Sarah Jane become far more interested in her plate than the man speaking. Margaret, Clara was surprised to see, looked like she was smothering a laugh, which she did with the added help of the cloth napkin previously stretched in a starched white coat across her lap.

“That sounds... involved,” Dave said, looking as astonished as he could manage without resorting to an undignified gawk.

“He's the editor for a travel magazine,” Clara cut in, relieving Malcolm of his turn to speak. _God, what was the name? I had a name. Something that Nicholson bloke said, Malcolm was laughing himself into a fit about it –_ “Sky Blue Thinkers, was it?” she said, turning to Malcolm with a desperate look hidden by the forward swing of her dark hair. It fell like a curtain in front of her profile, masking her eyes and their hard-edged stare.

To his credit, Malcolm managed to reduce his laughter to a small, charming smile. “Not my choice in a title,” he admitted, almost looking bashful about it. _How does he do it?_ Clara wondered, in a daze.

Malcolm folded his long hands and thin, pale fingers together into a small arch, planted his elbows on the table, and glanced across at Dave for a quiet moment of consideration. “That was an old motto from a previous editor–he still hangs around from time to time, you know, just to pop his head round the door and try to get a word in. Wants to appear relevant. He's a dedicated man, and I think he's probably kind – but not exactly the one you would trust to deliver what's necessary to the those who need it.”

It became cruelly clear to Clara, in the same way a bit of broken glass can lodge itself under a person's skin and bite down to the vein in a fast snap that draws blood, that Malcolm was criticizing someone else with this statement. She didn't need to guess who it was: he hadn't looked away from her father.

“It seems you're quite dedicated to your readership and upholding a standard,” Dave Oswald said, sitting straight in his chair, the motions of his knife and fork as rigid as a wind-up toy's reach and depth. Even his voice sounded like a clockwork. Surely Clara wasn't alone in hearing the little calliope chimes and ticks. “Consider me impressed, Malcolm. I hope our staff are just as loyal to the cause as you.”

“I wouldn't call our public _loyal_ , exactly,” Malcolm said, his words, face, and tone all grave-like and grim. “Just passionately impossible to persuade once they've been led to believe a point. So you work to keep them _away_ from that point of no return for their best interest.”

“And how long have you been working at this magazine?” Linda asked.

“Feels like all my life. It can leave a bit of a wear and tear on the soul, you know–all that legwork, all that fact shuffling, trying to find a happier medium. But no one wants the silver lining. They want the blood, the bones, the pulp. They want what's ugly. They want to be outraged at what's ugly, as if they didn't call for it in the first place. They dig as deep as they can until they find something rotten, some cancer, some epidemic or another, and then write or call or show up shouting about who to hold accountable for it.”

Malcolm paused. His hands were clenched like bones, the skin pale, strained, the ice blue veins beneath pushing up flat as if every drop of blood in every vein ached to burst. There was a little lightning fork of a vein in his temple ticking, tocking, beating along in time with every restless throb of his heart–and then he glanced at Clara, and the ease in the air around him was palpable.

“Clara helps, you know. She helps a lot. Having her around–it's like a new take on breathing. Much happier with her nearby.”

The noose around Clara's heart relented long enough to let her pulse beat normally again. Malcolm's hand found hers under the table, seeking her warmth this time, eager for her comfort. It was his. It was always his.

 

* * *

 

As Malcolm and Clara were getting ready to leave, a charming distraction sidelined them from marching out the front door into the waiting cab. Margaret put her hand on Clara's wrist and tapped her fingers there gently, smiling once she met her granddaughter's eyes.

“Leaving already?” she asked.

“I'm sorry,” Clara said at once. And she meant it–she truly was. “I'll come visit an hour earlier next Sunday–and stay an hour later, if you'd like.”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Margaret said, her smile never fading. “And bring Malcolm around, I think I have some clippings from–what was the paper he mentioned during pudding? The Glasgow Herald?”

Clara nodded, her throat growing tight. Malcolm was in the hall fetching their coats, not likely to overhear.

“I always loved his articles. He didn't write much about travelling back then, as I recall.”

“I'll–I'll let him know, Gran. He might be busy, but it won't hurt to ask.”

Nodding vaguely, Margaret took one last look at the dusty sheet of paper in her hand. It was folded over into four squares, all severe symmetrical lines. Her hand was steady as she passed the paper to Clara.

“What's this?”

“Your mother and I knocked heads over that recipe for an age before you were born. She wanted to get it just right.”

Clara's throat closed like a tomb, all air sealing down, locked tightly in.

“She left a little note for you at the bottom.”

Clara kissed her grandmother's cheek, wrapped her in the tightest hug she could dare risk giving the older woman, and forced a smile on her face until they were out the door. It was only then that she let the tears prick her eyes. She wiped them away quickly, not wanting to blot the page.

“What's that?” Malcolm asked as he opened the door to the cab and let Clara get in first.

She waited until he was seated beside her. “A letter–well, sort of a letter. It's that paper you helped my Gran get, remember?”

“I remember. It was somehow the highlight of this entire evening – that and watching Sarah Jane wish a quiet, brutal death on Linda.” Malcolm paused, peering down at the paper as Clara unfolded it. “What does it say?”

Clara didn't trust herself to read the note out loud. The tears in her eyes had somehow flooded into her mouth, filling her with longing and regret, and the bitterness that both thoughts and memories bring. She handed the paper to Malcolm to let him read in the passing lights of cars and street-lamps. The moon was hiding that night, new and black and dim.

Malcolm read the bottom of the page to himself. He reached out with his arm to pull Clara in close, his lips resting against the side of her forehead, where a slow and steady pain was starting to build. How could he know? Did he know? He must have–Malcolm always knew, somehow, the right thing to do to target exactly what ailed Clara at a given moment. She was either that transparent or he was that perceptive. She wasn't sure of which.

Under his breath, speaking beneath the passing hushing rush of cars turning through puddles and splashing rainwater around the roads, Malcolm said Ellie Oswald's words in an undertone, all reverence and love. “' _Remember, Clara–it's not what you make that matters, but the effort you put into every task. Keep trying. Fail and fall and try again. That's all there is to it. I love you, always.'_ ”

“Did your mother often draw life lessons from cooking recipes?” Malcolm asked.

Clara nodded, smiling through the small streak of tears that slid down her cheeks. She started to brush them away before Malcolm could do it, wanting to get rid of the grief herself. “She found lessons in just about anything,” Clara said. “Life's not about living, it's about learning. Active, not passive.”

“... She sounds lovely.”

“She was. You would have liked her.” Clara paused. She didn't want to say it, didn't have to say it. _I miss her. I miss her so much. And this is a void you can never fill._

Together, moving as one, with a single thought on both their minds, Clara and Malcolm reached up and down respectively. With their left hands and folded their fingers through the others', giving back as much warmth as they got in return, Clara turned her head, lifted her chin, and met Malcolm's lips in a soft, loving kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today. Please continue to forgive errors.

Clara didn't often get angry, not to the impressive nuclear expanse that Malcolm could, but when she did, oh, when her temper seethed and the blood within her boiled, it could burn the very air. Lungs black and every breath like the gasp that blasts a fire back from its gutted, sputtering sparks, Clara endured every excruciating second a co-worker eyed her too long askance when her temper rose up.

She sat silent in the lounge, seemingly patient as the other teachers dropped a comment veiled and loaded, but surface-level harmless enough not to be as gutted as such snark deserved. 

It was always such petty things, too. That was the worst part. Because to call out a petty comment was to give it far more attention than it originally warranted, allowing it a power that it did not rightfully earn–and yet Clara couldn't help but be angrier all the same.

During this particular week for particular reasons of a particularly biological nature, it had become more than she could normally stand. Usually her tolerance for such side remarks and lingering, probing stares was almost ulcer-inducingly impressive. As Malcolm once said, if she had a bollock to pop she'd have long since deflated both by now.

Clara knew it was useless to cling to what would only poison her in the end. That wisdom was her mother's, who would impart sage words with tender kisses that always seemed to make Clara's heart swell larger than her body could contain, filling her with a pride she found hard to name. Shouldn't it work in reverse, the parent being proud of the child? What person was proud of their parent? Clara was. And she still was, even now that her mother was gone.

Clara knew it was pointless to carry the weight of grudges and crosses, axes that required both grinding and planting in the perfectly vulnerable expanse of an offender's turned back – she knew this from Malcolm, who could never quite rid himself of such people. Some people were born to be endured long past their capacity to be interesting. She knew this, but knowing didn't make it any easier to set aside her temper. It only ignited like a fuse that had a short thread and a deceptively understated level of combustion.

That no one at Coal Hill noticed Clara's mood that day did not surprise her. She knew the value of a mask long before she'd ever met Malcolm, and liked to think she had a knack for them. Maybe her smiles were sharper or her laughter sounded less natural, no longer a gentle little trill but instead a wooden clunk like dead weight clumping down the stairs. _Boomp. Boomp. Boomp. Ha. Ha. Ha._

The only one who could probably see the problem with barely more than a skimming glance was her husband. Malcolm's was the only keen, cutting eye that didn't fill her heart with the inverted scream that preceded the real thing. Clara didn't mind letting Malcolm see what others would surely, gladly, and gleefully feast upon, all the weak parts of her heart and all the flaws and scars and burdens laid bare in an almost vulgarly honest spread. They were all hers to show and Malcolm's to know.

It was not bravery that made her do this. Clara just didn't give a damn. Not anymore. Not with Malcolm.

There was nothing he could realistically use this information for, anyway. She told him this once, even used it as an explanation for why she confided in him so much and so freely (even if the wine helped loosen her tongue). " _There can't be much about me that'll matter to your job."_

" _And who told you that?"_

" _It's just a hunch. I'm not important enough to ruin."_

" _I'll tell you something, right? You be grateful for that. You be more than fucking grateful, you be_ ecstatic. _Because the day you matter to some of that lot will be a grim fucking day indeed."_

The wine was in her head as she listened to him talk, but there was not enough of it to make Clara blind to the warning thread winding through Malcolm's reply. She spun it back to its source, twisting what had come undone back together again. That wasn't the first time she realized Malcolm was speaking from experience, it was simply the first time she began to see what that experience could _mean_.

Before she had a chance to ask about what he meant, before she had a chance to offer vague but well-meaning words of sympathy or begin the awful plod through mindless, time-wasting chatter, Malcolm cut her to the quick and surprised her with the following: _"And for whatever it's worth, you're important to me."_

Clara didn't often have to remember that moment. There was rarely a day that passed where she didn't think about it.

 

"Welcome home," Clara called out as she heard the front door open, because even in her anger there existed this distracting, soothing truth: Malcolm was home, he was there, and for all his complicated oddities, he made her happy.

Clara turned in her seat on the couch to greet him, instinct making her fix a smile in place when Malcolm walked into the room. He took one look at her as he reached up to unwind the scarf from around his neck, seeing right through her own veil.

"So which miserable fuck ruined your day?" It was as much of a joke as it was a sincere question. He barely took the time to settle in after a long day before he tuned himself to her mood, his attention riveted to her. His coat was still on, scarf still in place, gloves half-removed–but his eyes were pinned entirely to her.

That in itself was not unusual. Malcolm often looked long and lingeringly so at Clara. But it never failed to give her a heart-deep charge no matter how often it happened, or how often she caught him at it.

It was uncanny how much of the world could fall down into disregard the instant the door shut behind either one of them, especially on the days when Malcolm or Clara needed to shed such burdening weight the most. On bad days, on wretched days, on days that leave one or both of them gutted and hollowed and marveling at the simple task of completing a standard function such as walking, there was nothing they liked more than to drop all other concerns and focus entirely on the person in front of them: the one they wanted against all odds, reason, and circumstance. This self-contained isolation, this universe condensed between two such unlikely people, happened on the good days too – because those exist. They do. Even if sometimes they had to work hard to remember that good days could happen, clinging to every memory and thought in the same way that twice removed great aunt Clara had would clink and count her rosary. Good days. _Clink_. Good days can still happen. _Clink clink_.

She would think this no matter how the world at large did its best to press up against the hedges and bricks and bones and dust of their sanctuary. And that relentless assault on their happiness would never stop – she knew this, accepted it, and hated it as much as she knew she ought to make some kind of peace with it.

 _That's just the way life is._ The world always wanted in where it would do well to stay without.

Such an invasion showed in the little things that would make no one else pause to hear it, little signs of life intruding upon the world Clara and Malcolm had built together inside of their home. The house phone would ring, as well as their respective mobiles, and messages would pile up with insistent pings inside either inbox, reminders that their time and attention were wanted elsewhere. But the ease in which the pair of them could abandon the binds and cares and vague concerns of their respective professional worlds quietly impressed Clara with every day it occurred. It would undoubtedly draw the flames of ire and knife-like, ravenous attention should anyone out of this marital loop learn of it – which was, oddly enough, exactly what Clara's current problem was. 

"People at work are starting to talk," Clara said.

"Impressive. D'you think they'll work their way up to walking soon?"

"I wouldn't overestimate them, Malcolm," she said. That was, after all, why she was so cross to begin with. She expected them to act as decent people with a working concept of shame and how to avoid it, rather than digging into a pile of perfectly contained secrets to grind on through the lounge gossip mill. "But that's also not what I meant and you know it."

The gloves were gone from Malcolm's thin, long hands, as well as the scarf Clara picked out for him last Christmas, bound up in one of the sleeves of the coat as he put all three over the back of the couch. Clara noticed that his tie was crooked, coming loose in his fingers as he rounded the couch to join her where she sat. There was enough space on the sofa for him to stretch out comfortably, to the full length of his lanky, string-thin limbs, but for reasons only the two of them understood, Malcolm chose to sit close enough to touch Clara—except, he didn't.

At first she thought he was just minding their individual boundaries, imagining limits and blocks and all manner of barbed, brutal wiring wrapped around her hunched figure, barriers that separated any potential efforts to be touched. But then she realized now, that wasn't quite true. _That's how Malcolm is with me: present, close, mindful, but rarely the one to make any first moves. Usually saves that for me - until he desperately needs to._

Malcolm watched Clara watching him, both of them waiting, contemplating the other. She tilted her head to the side, leaning against his arm, thudding her frown-heavy cheek against his shoulder. She heard him take a quick breath, and then the pair of them listened to the filtered noises of the world outside pouring in.

A dog was barking down the way. A mother laughed while her children screamed, calling an end to a game that made a little girl start to cry. Tires shrieked up the road, rubber burning and sliding over the pavement–perhaps there was an accident, but Clara couldn't hear the crunching, breaking crash. She held her breath, waiting for it to happen. The impact never came.

Malcolm leaned back against the weight Clara gave, his words warm, his voice low. "What are they saying now?" he asked.

Clara reached out with her left hand for his matching own, which had turned up to face hers in anticipation of the touch. The golden bands they shared thudded against each other as she folded her fingers between his, making another little metallic _clink_.

 _Good days,_ _she_ thought, looking at the way the rings shone beneath their obvious wear.

Clara's hand often got lost in his but now that it was on top, holding so tightly onto him that she felt his bones straining back under her own, there was a strength alive inside that Clara didn't immediately recognize. "Have you ever heard an argument so phenomenally stupid it's almost physically painful trying to retell it to another person?" she asked.

Malcolm laughed. "Sweetheart, remind me where the fuck I work again."

Clara chuckled, squeezing his hand. "Point taken. It's that new secretary they brought in last term. She's got it into her head to go around getting to know us, which isn’t in itself a bad thing. Except for how she does it. She never actually talks directly _to_ you. She sits others down instead and has them talk _about_ you."

She paused, pulling back from Malcolm long enough to shake a crick out of her neck, a consequence of the position they were in and their difference in height. It wasn't as bad when they were sitting down, but he did have a tendency to loom. "And that's how the wedding ring came up again, along with guesses as to what kind of man I've got stowed away somewhere."

"So?" he demanded. Not obliviously, and not cruelly either, just a direct, succinct, honest question.

"So it's not that I care what they think, Malcolm," Clara said, peering up at him. "I don't. I don't give a damn. But I care that they think I _should_ care and that they won't stop needling me about what isn’t their business to know."

"Let them try," he said, not quite shrugging, but he shook his head as he held on tighter to her hand. "A prick'll be a prick, what do you expect?"

"I _expected_ –" Clara started to say, then stopped, because she knew that was her first mistake as per one of her own mottoes.

_Expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed._ _It was a horrible lesson to learn and a painful ideal to keep up, but life hadn't exactly kind. Clara knew her way around lies and smiles, when to do either and when to let them fall away in shreds, just as she knew the absolute peril involved in letting her heart go aloft to something like hope. She knew that before she met Malcolm, and against all odds his presence in her life seemed to actually defy this adage._

Malcolm's adaptation of her motto had gone one cynical note deeper: _Expect nothing but disappointment._ _They had laughed to hear him say it, but the silence that lingered after the statement let both Clara and Malcolm know there was far too deep a note of truth to be ignored._

 _Clara took a breath and tried again._ "I _wanted_ to be left alone. I don't think that's asking too much. It's me wanting to be respected, to be left with–I don't know. Something like dignity, only not as dire."

Malcolm shifted against her, as if there was something in this remark that jabbed at him the way a thorn might ache and grind against the bottom of his spine. Her eyes were on their locked hands and Malcolm's eyes peering at the way Clara's lashes bent down in a shadow across her gaze. She took in a long breath. Not out of anger, no. This was not the sort of inverted gasp born from fires whose kindling and sparks still remained long after the blaze. It was the sort of breath that fortified and gave comfort, a breath that rooted down marrow deep and intensified each time Malcolm was near her–and vice versa. It was the sort of breath Malcolm took near and around and because of Clara–and she knew this because she'd seen it firsthand. They both thrived in the air around each other, which was more than enough of a reason to shut out the world and focus shamelessly on themselves. 

Malcolm waited before speaking again. "I'm not going to say you should know better," he said, taking care to deliver every word in the same tone that would often talk Clara out of the coldest and most dreaded nightmares. "But I _will_ say you should start wanting a lot fucking less."

"I didn't think I was asking for much to begin with," she muttered.

"See to an ordinary functioning person, you wouldn't be, right? Like to me–to me you're not. But you're not working with ordinary fucking people, are you?"

"I guess not.”

"There's only two kinds of people in a job like that," Malcolm continued. "People who spew shit and the people who eat it." He caught Clara's scowl, not necessarily at the language he chose as much as the image it created. He continued regardless. "Or sometimes there's people like you. People who try to stay outside of that. Well removed. Far a-fucking-field, hoping they're far enough back to avoid the splatter."

Malcolm slipped his hand out from under Clara's, letting his touch fall instead on the back of her neck and the ever-growing knot of tension that threaded her shoulders up and tight, making Clara hunch into herself. It was easier to listen to what Malcolm said when he was so dutifully at work offering some small bit of physical comfort that truth couldn't provide.

"Well you _can't_ avoid it, darling," he said, tempering the harsh blow of his words with a tender touch. "What you can do is stand back, smile, and watch them all drown. Then you can pick off the ones that try to make it out."

There was a moment, just a moment and no more, where Clara could sense his eyes on her, where she could feel the probing, curious trail of that well-loved gaze as it moved from her expression (receptive, thoughtful), to the way her posture had changed under his touch (straighter, less tight). It didn't take Clara long to realize Malcolm was trying to anticipate her response.

They were alike in that regard. They didn’t just need to know where they stood, they needed to know five steps ahead of the next one and then figure out all the ways those steps could stumble and diverge off to something else. It was the same maddeningly thin line that could so easily become a garrote, even to those who set its course with care.

"Thank you," Clara said, and he responded only by rubbing the back of her neck for a few minutes more in silence.

At times he let his fingers stray up to the back of her hair, sifting through the strands that come loose from the bun she did in a lazy, sleepy haste that morning. It had been clear to Clara for a while now that while Malcolm may not often initiate these touches, he was less likely to be the one to stop them. There was something about any and all ranging forms of intimate contact that, while he seldom set them into motion, he'd work to keep them going, needing the affection for himself as much as it needs to be given.

And then, just like that, the time for comfort passed. Clara and Malcolm both stood and separated, him moving to the kitchen to start dinner, Clara towards the front of the house to pick up the folders she'd thrown on a table in a heap. It took some time to sort through them, and when she did she soon decided to bring these little bits of work into the living room that adjoined the kitchen, murmuring appreciatively at the smells already wafting from the kitchen.

"You're still a culinary novice, sweetheart," he said, "and that's being _kind_."

"That doesn't mean I don't know a good meal in the making," Clara pointed out. She pulled her hair out of the bun and combed the strands over one shoulder, eyeing the papers she separated in front of her on the coffee table. "And you haven't let me down yet, you know."

"Wasn't there a motto in this house about having expectations?" he asked, knowing the answer already.

Clara smiled as she leaned back against the sofa cushions to watch him at work, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows, showing the thin, strained muscles of either arm. That alone was distracting, even at this distance. Clara enjoyed the sight for a few seconds more in pure self-indulgence.

"Yes, there is," she said, "but I never once thought to apply that to you."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Not fully, not complete. And even so, it was only natural to be let down once in a while, even by the person towards which she had long since come to feel a thing like love. It takes more than a muscle to fall in love, after all. But love, like muscles, needed exertion if it ever wanted to mean anything.

Clara wondered if she'd ever let Malcolm down. Surely she must have – it's only natural, really. Something to be expected – even if expectation itself was against his own credo. But the way Malcolm smiled at her, that wide, disarming grin, too full of teeth and showing the deep bends of crow's feet at the edge of either eye, made her reconsider.

"Likewise," he said, his heart in the simple, single word.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains sexual content. And errors, probably.

It was the smell of coffee that woke Clara up – but it was early, far too early. She peered bleary eyed and dream-heavy at the clock. 3:38 in the morning.

"Malcolm?" she called, her voice weighty with sleep. She passed her hand across the blankets and sheets, searching for him. It was cold, far too cold. He either left long ago, or never came to bed.

Once the heavy noose of sleep fell off her, Clara remembered that she had gone to bed alone that night. Malcolm had called her quickly (and rung off without so much as a goodbye) to say he wouldn't be home that night. And he'd told the truth – he was home that _morning_ , if Clara wanted to get a bit technical about it.

Clara headed out to the hall, taking the sharp left to the stairs, and descended them carefully. Sleep made lead of her limbs and she could feel her eyes growing watery and strained, a protest against the dreams recently discarded. Knuckling either eye and stifling a yawn as she reached the bottom step, Clara called out once more. "Malcolm?"

"Back here," he said, his voice muffled. It came from the living room, so she stumbled towards that. It helped that he kept a light on, putting Clara in mind of the dream she had left behind. Something about shadows, tunnels, and the one long, distant light guiding her back out to the safer end. Malcolm had been there – or had she just wished he'd been?

"What are you doing up so late?" she asked, yawning into her hand as she approached. He sat hunched on the couch, bent forward, his shoulders raised. He'd taken off his suit coat and undid the buttons at his wrists, leaving him free to push the sleeves up to his elbows, which are planted on either one of his knobby knees. But other than that, he looked no more undressed and comfortable than he would if he were still in the office.

Clara smiled at the sight of his striped socks–how she had once teased them for this little blow to his otherwise flawless sense of fashion. Then she'd started buying them for his birthdays and he started to grumble less and thank her more. These strangely sweet striped socks Malcolm wore were probably one small way he could inject a bit of brevity into the awful delirium that was the too large portion of his life allotted to his job. That thought almost broke her heart almost clean through.

"I've been up later than this," he said. His chin was propped up in his hand as he passed over one sheet to another. "This doesn't mean a fucking thing."

But it did mean something, and Clara knew it. _He's only lying. He only lies to me when he's too tired to think I'll notice the difference._ "That's not really an answer," she pointed out.

Malcolm made some noise that could have been a sigh, except not so vulnerable as that, so perhaps it was more than a huff. He said, "It's _work_ , sweetheart. It's always fuckin' work, isn't it? That's always the answer."

Clara peered at the mostly empty cup of coffee on the table in front of him, placed carefully away from the papers he'd been poring over. Snatching up the mug, she carried it to the kitchen for a refill, lingering long enough to load up a plate of the biscuits he so loved. That's partially why Clara brought them earlier in the week on her way back from Coal Hill, picking up a few things they needed for the kitchen. She knew Malcolm would enjoy them when he got around to coming home long enough to do more than breeze through the rooms, ceasing the wrathful prattling long enough to kiss her cheek, wish her a good day, and swoop off again. The other reason was that Clara liked them quite a bit herself.

Clara, the coffee, and the little biscuits arranged neatly on the plate all return to Malcolm's side, all treats he enjoyed to different degrees. But he barely noticed.

This was not unusual, especially on the nights – mornings? – when Malcolm had to bring the work home with him. His mind was always mired in tasks and toils he only mentioned to her in the quickest, most dismissive, passing comments. Often these confessions of frustration came unbidden and most unexpected, which was how Clara knew he really had to talk about it. If a problem can't be quelled with a glare, a grit of the teeth, or a heartily devoted, impromptu cooking lesson then it was a bloody problem indeed – and one Clara really wished he would let her help solve. Even if all she could do was listen to him, that had to matter. That had to help. Even if all the support she could give was the strength inside her two hands holding on to him, that had to mean _something_ – even to a man as fearsome as he.

Clara joined him on the couch, sliding one arm around his hunched, heavy shoulders as if she could dislodge the weight that grew there. That got a reaction.

"Sweetheart, you're fuckin' _freezing_ ," he hissed, but Clara could feel him relax into her touch. She once joked that his body seemed to act to spite his mouth and he'd grinned at this, his stormy eyes oddly bright as he joined her for a laugh. He'd made no arguments against that.

Clara wrapped her other arm around his chest, hugging him from the side and letting her head rest on his shoulder. "Come up to bed," she said. "You're tired."

" _You're_ tired. _I'm_ working," he said, but Clara could feel a hand creeping around her waist and then across the small of her back, moving slowly. His hand belied his tone and the dismissal that made each word seem like a rejection: he wanted her there, was clearly glad to have her near at hand.

"Then stop working and be tired so we can go sleep," Clara said, enjoying very much the warmth of his hand moving in a slow, dreamer's stroke.

"You say that as if it's the easiest thing."

"Because it is," Clara persisted, half teasing, mostly kidding, but entirely loving the way he scowled at her side-long, one eyebrow arched over his glasses. Clara loved it when he wore them – there was something so delightful about watching them fog up when she pressed in close to kiss him. "If you're going to be difficult, at least have a biscuit. Or the coffee, it'll only get cold. I brought you a new cup."

"I _know_ you brought the cup. I _see_ the cup, right?" He pulled his arm back, hand lashing out fast to snatch one of the biscuits off the plate–and then he handed it to Clara, curious to see her response.

Clara recognized that look completely, and any doubt she might have had about how focused he was on his work transformed from suspicion into belief. He didn't give a good goddamn about the papers in front of him now that she was here. They both knew that he ought to be. And perhaps he even felt guilty about it just a little, somewhere inside – but it didn't last. Regrets were stones in the pockets of a soul, making braver hearts drown in even the calmest of currents. 

Clara reached out and pulled the glasses off his face, flipping them round so she could wear them. He stared at her for the longest stretch of silence she'd heard from him in months. To anyone else it'd be horrifying, a cause for fear and panic. But for Clara, Malcolm's silence was a sign of success.

"How about now?" she asked, doing her best impression of his worst frown.

"Get the fuck to bed," he said, but he was smiling now, grinning as if he couldn’t help it.

Clara stood up, glasses still on, squinting at him through the lenses. "And what about you?" she asked as she took the glasses off her face. She folded the wiry legs down and handed them back.

Malcolm's fingers closed around her wrist and he pulled her closer with a force she could not resist. Nose to nose, eye to eye, he looked her over slowly, focusing longest on her lips again. "See you in ten," he said, drawing out the words so that his lips could graze hers in a lingering hint of a kiss. And then he let her go, all but pushing Clara lightly back to stand up straight again.

Clara turned at once and headed back to the stairs, all thoughts of sleep abandoned.

Malcolm never came up to bed. 

 

* * *

 

Later that day, when they were both properly awake but separated, Clara received another phone call. It was Malcolm again.

She immediately suspected Malcolm's "emergency of a marrow-excreting nature" was, perhaps, not as dire as all that. He enjoyed his dramatic, clever phrasing – some might even call it near-to histrionic – because they were effective in conveying both a point and a perspective: how he felt and just what he was having so many feelings _about_. Mostly she listened when Malcolm reached states like that – she listened because she was looking for the heart beneath the anger and the fire, certain that it hadn't become a charred lump of ash just yet.

" _Not with you around,"_ he once said to her. But she let the comment go unremarked upon based on the circumstances. The two of them were in bed for a start, Clara wide awake and happily pinned beneath the warmth his slowly relaxing body provided; Malcolm was nearly asleep, his head turned to rest on her breasts, lips moving faintly across the part just to the side of her heart. That's when he said it. _"Thought I'd have had a stroke by now, but not anymore. Not with you around."_

Clara had once read in a magazine left behind in the lounge at Coal Hill that physical exhaustion, like inebriation, could make a person tell truths they were not ready to say when their bodies weren't drained to such a vulnerable point. She took this bit of insight for a fact because it seemed sensible enough, and surely it was understandable given her own experiences with rambling on when her body was too tired to remain alert. She revealed far more embarrassing things to friends during childhood sleepovers than she would be pressed to say to them when wide awake, that was for sure. But it took her marriage to the notorious _Herr Tucker_ to really _see_ this trait in action, to see the way sleep could loosen a tongue until such a habit became a penchant for revealing truths only when safely ensconced in the shadows.

But today's phone call defied this fact. It was not merely a confession made when the mind was otherwise occupied, battling off sleep. It was a penance as much as it was a plea. She would not tolerate anything less.

Clara answered on the third ring, surprised to hear from him so soon.

"Get down here," was all he said, his voice low, urgent.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, not moving from her place on the couch. She'd only just gotten home, and she hadn't planned to do anything more taxing than take a long soak in the bath until it was time to make dinner.

"I can answer that when I see you, yeah? Just... Get here."

Malcolm didn't often call her out of nowhere, and when he did he certainly did not ask Clara to stop by the building as if it were the easiest thing in the world to accomplish.  Malcolm had long since made it known that neither of them could dare risk letting invasive eyes and prying minds come close to either to herself or the pair of them together. That he'd been wearing a wedding ring since they exchanged vows earlier in the year remained a fact that flew over the heads of almost every single person he met at work.

Clara understood why they needed to be kept a secret. She even agreed with the decision, however much she both rued and lamented its necessity. And even without Malcolm's constant colorful commentary on the subject and how much it wore him down beyond his bone marrow, there was no place in all of Britain she would rather be _less_ than where her husband had to spend far too much of his days.

 _If he's asking me to come it must be serious,_ Clara reasoned. _Or at least Malcolm's version of serious._ Which could be counted on to be quite serious indeed.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm called again just as she arrived at the building. He'd earlier mentioned something about DoSAC changing locations in a recent departmental shuffle, and so Clara had followed the directions he'd hissed in her ear as she told him she'd be over as soon as she could.

The doors to the lift slid shut as she answered her phone, staring into the shimmering, foggy reflection of her face in the metal doors. "Yes?"

"Where are you?" His voice was attentive, alert.

Clara looked up. The light over the lift door flashed, moving from one number to the next. "In the lift. Almost at the third floor. Malcolm, what's this all about?"

"Talk soon," was all he said, and he hung up before she could demand a complete explanation.

She recognized that. She had heard it before–not often, which was why it stood out in her mind along with a few cheek-flushing memories about furtive whispers, warm breath, and groping, exploratory hands–both hers _and_ his.

And suddenly it became abundantly clear what he needed. Clara laughed and put her phone into her purse, trying not to let it turn into an all-out wicked cackle.

 _Really? Here?_ Could he be any more mental? It was almost too absurd to accept, but there really was no other alternative. Clara _knew_ that tone in his voice, and she had no doubt it would match the lidded gaze once he finally arrived. _I love that look. I hate that look–it's almost too sweet, too precious, too… hungry._

That thought distracted Clara for a long, delightful moment, but she wouldn't let herself focus on that daydream for long. Best save it for when he showed. He would deserve as much teasing as she could stand to dish out, not just for calling her up as if it were a life or death situation that required her guidance, but for lying to her earlier that morning.

Clara folded her arms across her chest, one foot tapping in a steady, hasty rhythm against the lift's tiled floor. It let out a _ding_ and slid open at the fourth floor–and there he was, waiting, looking for all the world as if he was _not_ waiting, staring blankly at the mobile in his hand. She watched with muted amusement as a few people scurry out of sight behind Malcolm's back, their eyes peeled and opened wide to stare at him as he walked straight onto the lift, not looking at his wife. Her heart almost stopped when he finally did.

His eyes were blazing hard, full to the brim of the _look_ she very much expected them to show.

And she laughed again. "Oh, Malcolm," Clara said, shaking her head back and forth, her dark brown hair shifting. There was quite a bit more to say besides that, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not yet.

The doors slid shut as he turned to the panel of buttons on his left. Casually, with an air of absolute indifference, he jammed several of the buttons in a row, pressing down hard until each little plastic cap was stuck down. They were still lit up and blinking fast. An emergency light flared on just above the panel's phone to be used in times such as this, but Malcolm made no effort to put in a call. He even knocked it off the hook for good measure, and Clara laughed again, admiring his attention to almost petulant detail.

"Did you just to trap us in here?" she asked him, arms still folded, foot still tapping.

Malcolm looked Clara over, showing the faintest trace of a smile. It was as if he had to force himself to put the expression on, working hard through the mask that she knows falls so heavily and readily in place whenever he left the house. Clara wanted to help him through the effort–surely it wasn’t easy, letting the Malcolm she married rise up to take the place of the Malcolm she pitied, especially considering where they both were right now, right in the thick of it. But the longer he looked at her, the easier it was for him to lose the mask, as if her gaze alone had a power she couldn't control.

"Temporarily," he said. "It jams up when you give it too many fucking things to do," he said, reaching out to cup her face with both of his hands, sliding his fingers through her hair. "Much like the sacks of wank in each department."

"Lovely image," Clara said as he passed his fingers through her hair again. Clara enjoyed this little bit of comfort, knowing she had told him time and again how much she liked it when he played with her hair. He didn't do it often, that he was even doing it now meant he was either trying to make nice or make up for the lie. Clara had vivid memories of him tugging on it hard when the pair of them shifted and fumbled in their sleep, not quite used to sharing a bed in the early days.

Malcolm brushed a thumb over Clara's bottom lip, drinking in the way she shivered at his touch. Not long after that he kissed her, a warm, slow kiss, the kind that always made Clara's knees weak, especially when he worked his tongue into it.

Malcolm's hands left her face as his arms moved around her, all but holding her up as he pulled her close. It was almost enough to tug Clara off balance, and so she pushed up to the tops of her toes, balancing on that black wedge of boot in order to meet his lips again, taking charge of the kiss.

 _It_ was hard to resist Malcolm when he was kissing like _this_. And yet resist Clara did. She knew she had to think clearly. She had to be practical, since it was shamefully clear he could not.

"Malcolm?" she gasped in between each kiss, returning as many as he gave. Clara moved her head to the side to continue speaking, but he simply moved from her lips to her cheek, his voice a low, wordless murmur that almost made Clara limp. His mouth was at her neck, kissing, tasting, moving the edge of his teeth against her skin.

Clara's arms locked around his neck in an effort to hold onto him as much as she was interested in drawing him closer against her body. She was flat against him now, well aware of his body and the way it seemed to press and give and _fit_ against hers – but even then she forced herself to keep a clear head. It helped when she closed her eyes. Her thoughts seemed easier to pin down when she wasn't looking at him. Watching Malcolm in the mirror combined with feeling him against her was almost too much to bear.

"Right here?" was all she managed to ask, her voice forced out between another gasp. It almost sounded like a squeak.

"Clearly," he purred.

"Aren't there cameras?" Clara glanced into the mirror again. _Bad idea. Oh, there has never been a worse idea than that_. Watching him caress her, his kisses turning to harder presses of lips with far more bite than sweetness, made Clara's knees weak again–and then he was lifting her up, pressing her against the wall.

"Hasn't worked in months," he said.

Clara was actually relieved to hear this–and then felt instantly worried that she was relieved.

As if he could sense these thoughts, Malcolm pulled back just far enough to look at Clara's eyes, searching for hesitation there.

"Go on," she told him, smiling as sweetly as she could. "I didn't come for nothing."

"Oh sweetheart, you haven't come _yet_ ," he teased. Clara laughed and soon Malcolm joined in, both of them shaking their heads at how _awful_ that line was, though his tone suggested it was not merely a simple statement of fact. It was a promise.

Malcolm let Clara go long enough for her to settle back down on her feet. Her arms disengaged from his neck as she set about completing the thoroughly awkward process of removing the one fashion impediment to this whole affair.

"Stop staring," she hissed, though if he was going to look, Clara decided at the last second that it might as well make it worth his while. She shifted her hips with just a bit more exaggeration than was probably required for removing her underwear, and she glared at him as he smiled and leaned back just a bit, admiring the sight.

"I mean it," she continued, putting all the tension he had drawn out of her into her voice and the power of her stare. Clara balled up her panties into a fist – and then tucked them safely into the pocket of his suit. Smiling, giving it a little tap so he knew they were safe and sound, Clara added, "Stop staring at me and get to work."

Clara had just enough time to spare on the thought that it was lucky she was in a skirt as he leaned forward and swept her off her feet again, holding her up against the mirrored wall. She locked her arms around his neck and gave him a long, lasting kiss, wrapping her legs around his waist. _A skirt without stockings no less,_ she added to herself, fighting back a laugh. She always laughed when she was nervous and coming undone at the seams. Malcolm knew this, and he was kind enough not to tease her _too_ much for it–even if he was also completely capable, _and_ willing, of making Clara laugh and blush all the more throughout the whole nerve-fraying process

"Just like old times, then?" she asked, remembering stolen moments like this from the days just after their marriage. "Please tell me this isn't idea of christening the new building."

"You have to admit it's much better than the fucking cupboard, yes?" he murmured against her throat, one arm releasing Clara so he could put that hand to better use undoing his belt. Her heart raced as she watched him in the reflection, but both her nerves and his joke got the best of her again.

Clara giggled, unable to help it. " _Phrasing_ ," she teased.

"Oh, don't start," he sighed, his breath cutting off as Clara nipped her teeth into his bottom lip.

"And for the record yes, this is better," she said, catching his half-lidded gaze and the lust alive inside it. "I vastly prefer the _fucking_ lift over the cupboard."

"Don't get clever," Malcolm muttered again, undoing his button and fly.

Clara ran the tip of her nails down the back of his neck, knowing he'd shiver (he did), knowing he'd moan (almost), knowing that he'd mix her name in with a low hiss (he did, again and again and again). She smiled, all laughter gone, all nerves settled. His voice could do that to her far too easily, just as much as it had to power to rile her up again.

"I don't have to get clever," she said. "I already am."

"And how long did it take you to realize what I called you for, eh?"

"Shut up." Clara tightened her legs around him as he kissed her once more, short, hard, with no tenderness involved. Her skirt was up above her hips now and though it was far from glamorous, wretchedly unromantic, but so _fitting_ , so _worth it_ , and so _perfect_ for them and what Clara herself was feeling in that moment, she reached down to fit the tip of him inside her.

Malcolm let out a warm, low laugh that said how much he adored her in that moment more than he'd often given words to say – but Clara didn't mind. She had always been suspicious of people who existed in a constant need to hear or say such tender phrases as how much they were loved and how much they could feel that love.

He pushed further inside Clara, testing her, filling her, pausing just long enough to listen to her appreciative gasp. Her chest heaved so that her breasts swelled up against him, drawing his eyes down to the buttons of her short-sleeved blouse.

"Don't you dare," Clara growled. "I like this one."

"Should've taken it off," he grumbled, pushing in deeper.

Clara smirked, her eyes finding his as Malcolm's gaze grew darker, his need still prominent. But hers surpassed it. "Too late for that now," she told him, only to get a harder, shorter thrust in response. Her toes curl up inside her boots, the pleasure and thrill and sweetly stinging warmth filling her along with a heat that lanced up her belly and spread down through her legs. Clara sighed, mixing his name in with the long, low breath.

"Later, then," he said, grunted it more like, his lips finding the bare part of her shoulder where the blouse didn't quite cover. Malcolm pressed his teeth into the faintest bite, alternating it swiftly with a kiss. Both of his hands were on her waist, fingers gripping tight, holding her still despite the force of every thrust. It was hard to keep quiet but she managed to let out only a few indecent mewls that he quickly silenced with his lips, his kisses suddenly tender.

Clara listened to his breath as the minutes passed, focusing on the way it hitched and caught, working out of sync with her own. She spied him glancing into the mirror just as often as she was, the pair of them fascinated by _watching_ what they were doing as well as actually, well, _doing_ it.

 _Phrasing,_ Clara told herself, just as a shudder rippled up her back and made her hiss, clinging harder to him, tightening around him as she felt herself coming closer to the edge. His thrusts were longer now, steadied, measured, almost indecently languid. This appreciative thought occurred along with a sudden cold panic that almost threw Clara out of the mood.

 _Someone will catch us. Someone will fix the camera and will see what we're doing and it'll be all over the news, the papers, ruining him, ruining_ us _–_

Her eyes were clamped shut, tightly locked. _This was an awful idea,_ she thought, chewing on her lip as another shudder moved through her.

"Hey," Malcolm said, his voice soft. Clara felt the tip of his nose move over her cheek, a caress so soft and so unexpectedly sweet that she couldn't help but look at him, shocked. "I love you," he said, catching her once more off guard.

In the silence that followed, Malcolm made sure to press his advantage with a series of quickening thrusts. His breath hastened with his pace, his gaze growing hazy, but he kept his eyes on Clara and her face, narrowing on the way her lips formed a little _o_ between every gasp and pant.

"You love _this_ ," Clara said, teasing him, pushing her fingers up to pull at the back of his hair. Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough to make him _feel_ it.

Malcolm hissed, showing his teeth. This sight and sound, combined with the feel of him inside, moved Clara back to the edge again, closer, ever closer. She could feel her body trembling.

"No," he argued, keeping his voice quiet, the words flowing into her ear as he savored the moans of her impending orgasm. "No, you've left off the best bit."

She moaned his name, unable to ask the question she would have preferred to say. Malcolm read it on her face all the same and, as expected, waited until she came to answer it.

"I love doing _this_ with _you_ ," he said, and he pressed his teeth against her bottom lip, biting harder than he had yet.

Clara was almost limp against him, her arms trembling, her thighs starting to burn from keeping them clamped as hard as they'd been these past few minutes. She stretched her neck up, craning her head to whisper in his ear. " _Likewise_ ," she said, savoring the sound of his moan, his gasp, the way he stiffened, as always, just before the end. She considered it quite the victory that he said her name in his loudest moan yet. It rose up from the depth of his throat and out his lips, filling the lift and the silence that followed.

 

* * *

 

They were strangers when they parted ways. Malcolm, having almost miraculously unjammed the buttons by applying the same amount of pressure to the lit up little plastic nubs, settled into that professional mask Clara pitied so much.

The lift _dinged_ as it stopped at the ninth floor. Just before the doors opened, inviting whoever had been waiting ever so patiently for it to arrive, Clara glanced over at Malcolm, unable to resist.

"We're doing this again next week," she said, the words spilling out fast. She stepped out of the lift, her head raised, chin lifted, eyes pointed forward, thinking to make for the stairs and take the long way out.

To Clara's surprise Malcolm left the lift with her. It wouldn't take him long to pass her what with his long, steady strides. Out of the corner of his mouth he hissed, "In the cupboard next time." And he paused long enough to catch her agreeing smile.


	12. Chapter 12

"They can cope without you for one fuckin' day, can't they?"  Malcolm asked over breakfast. His tone was light, a groundless complaint on the surface alone, but one glance was all Clara needed to see the heaviness alert in his eyes. It tugged at her heart like a hand clawing from the undertow, eager for help.

Clara almost thought that the look he gave her was imploring, but that sounded dangerously close to the idea of _begging_ – and Malcolm certainly did not beg. Even when she had him on his knees, in every sense of the phrase, the most to which Clara could reduce him were quietly phrased demands. At the very least a "please" was used in those situations. Clara didn't ask for much more than that.

"No, Malcolm, they can't," she said, her answer succinct, the tone precise and clipped like her steps as she paced around the kitchen. When she looked up, she made sure her smile was charming as she could stand to make it be. "Can you?" she fired back.

His glare might have made a weaker person shrink back in fear, but it never reached that point with Clara. She didn't know if she was brave or simply stubborn, but whatever combination it was, it allowed her to look Malcolm dead in the eye no matter what attempt at a temper he displayed, and stand her solid, sure ground.

It helped that Malcolm's rages, prolific as much as they were foul, profound as they were pitiful, never encompassed her in any scope of blame. It helped to stare straight on into the heart of that pain, knowing that even if she couldn't prevent the damage, then she could at least try to lessen the pain. Any emotion Malcolm showed, however wretched, weak, or unrefined, was something Clara cherished and encouraged without a word. However painful it was, she couldn't deny that she felt it was an honor to be so trusted.

Malcolm was still scowling when Clara paused at the front door, freeing her hair from the collar of her coat and combing out the strands until they were evenly parted over both of her shoulders. He watched her button up and do a quick last minute check in the mirror by the door, still saying nothing. He didn't need to say anything; his disapproval was written across his face.

Clara turned and gave his cheek a little pat, smiling as he flinched away from her touch only to lean into it within the same second. Whatever had Malcolm so tense this morning, making his nerves come undone in a tangled raw web, was also making him sensitive to physical contact.

"You know it's our anniversary, yeah?" he asked her.

Clara pulled back her hand as if burned. "Yeah, I know," she said breezily, but on the inside she was steeling herself. Shoulders back and chin raised, eyes focused entirely on him, Clara forced herself to hold strong. "But I also know I can't miss today just because my husband frowns and asks," she said, imitating his expression to the best of her ability. It helped that she had a nice set of eyebrows herself. "I'm a teacher. I have a responsibility to my students– _you_ know that, right?"

"I do know that. I know that because you've fuckin' told me about it. I am capable of retaining information about your life, sweetheart."

"Then you know already that my work's important to me," Clara said, her voice as sharp as her tongue. "And I don't remember ever having to talk to you like this when _you_ go to work and miss time with me." 

It was the truth, and he knew it was the truth. That he wouldn't contest this argument or even laugh was both a relief and a sharp point that stung Clara's heart. She watched Malcolm carefully, waiting to see a smirk or a little sarcastic snort or shake of the head. She geared up for him to dismiss the blow that she laid on him, but he didn't. He did none of these things. Worse still, he was nodding, his eyes dropping for the smallest of seconds before they lifted back up and pinned onto her gaze.

There was no fury present between the two of them, but neither one were prepared to back down from the points they were so keen to make. Clara knew she had a leg to stand on, but she wasn't sure where Malcolm stood at all.

 _He wants something – no he_ needs _something,_ Clara thought again, staring at him _._ But until he actually said what it was, she would only be left in the dark, groping endlessly for the little switch to break through the shadows. She wouldn't make him say it. She knew from experience that words pried from an unwilling heart and mind leave the worst wounds behind. _But that doesn't mean I can't give him a little prod in the right direction._

"It's important to me," she said again, "And... I know this is odd to say, but I'm actually important to them. So I might complain here and there about having to teach _at_ a sea of blank faces instead of _to_ and _yes_ , there's still that group of girls who call me Moon-Face Ozzie but they're children and you can't let them see your fear. Frustration, I mean. It's all part of a job, and it's a job I happen to like. I like being there. I like being useful. And I like getting out of the house. I'm not sorry."

Something about this choice of words made Malcolm's eyes tighten, and he looked for a second as if he were about to speak – but it passed. He offered what could be a quick smile, but it was gone before she could recognize it as anything more than a smirk. Clara’s own smile was fixed in place, sincere and determined to inspire in Malcolm one of his own.

"Hey, chin up. Shouldn't be too bad, having a whole day to yourself. Try to relax a little," she said, giving his arm a warm, steady pat. "Spoil yourself today. You haven't had a day off in a while."

"Fair point," he said, nodding again as if he had to process this bit of information. "I have been meaning to indulge myself in a mid-morning wank and then openly lament the state of the human fuckin' condition as presented on Strictly. Maybe they'll have a Charleston set to Morrissey's _You Have Killed Me,_ and I'll finally know all the joys that can come from staring into the abyss."

Clara darted up on the toes of her chunky heeled shoes, giving Malcolm's cheek a warm, slow kiss. He leaned in to the caress, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. He kissed her forehead in return.

"Strictly airs on Saturdays," she whispered in his ear, before taking a step back. “You were watching it while I graded my essays last week."

Malcolm laughed, all false cheer and pasted-on grin, but he winked at her as she opened the door. The sight of it gave her heart and courage, enough to take her through the day.

She liked being needed. She liked Malcolm needing her. She didn't like having to turn that need away, even if it was a thoroughly practical thing to do.

"Don't make too much of a mess," she said, putting on her best teacher's voice, the one that often came before the threat of lines and detentions. "And try to have a nice day."

Malcolm was at the door, ready to close it behind her. He didn't say a word. Clara turned at the top step and reached back, pulling on the front of his robe until he was leaning down to match her height, in range to kiss again. She made this one last longer than the one before, her lips firmly pressed against his.

"How 'bout we do lunch?" he said, with just the faintest rise in tone. Almost a question, certainly not a plea.

It was Clara's turn to wink at him. "We'll see. … Love you."

"Love you too," Malcolm said after a pause. His voice was lost among the noise of traffic at her back and the distant hum and grind of yard-work further down the road.

She understood why he was so tense over breakfast, why he bared and then hastily repaired the raw bundle of nerves that followed him from the bedroom down into the kitchen. She understood why he was so prickly when he bid goodbye at the door–she understood exactly why he flinched and froze on the word "need."

Because he needed her today. He needed her every day. But no matter how much this need thrived inside, he couldn't deny that work came first above all things, even a marriage.

* * *

 

Clara's heart broke and repaired with every step that took her away from home, but she was determined to carry on. _You have to. You must. And you know in your heart that Malcolm does as well._ It was part of the promise they made, the pair of their hands and eyes locked, hearts newly bound together.

" _I will love you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together."_ Those had been part of his vows, a more traditional, straightforward confession that was no less true despite the lack of originality. So what if they had a quickie wedding at the courthouse? That didn't stop the newly christened Mr. and Mrs. Tucker from saying their vows together when they met up again later, reciting the old and inventing their own vows together, along with all other sorts of bedroom hymns.

This undeniable fact sustained Clara up til lunch–and then all the way through it. She couldn't possibly spare the time needed to head home like she wanted, and for a moment she was glad that she didn't promise Malcolm that she would come back. _You didn't give your word so you have nothing to break,_ she said, her thoughts as bitter as the taste in her mouth _._

Malcolm was as understanding as Clara expected him to be, teasing her just a little as she rang off and sent her love and well wishes for a presumably delicious, now solo, lunch. "Their menu finally improved, has it?" he asked. "Better than what I've got on? Don't bother saying yes; you're a wonderful liar, sweetheart, but I know what goes in those fuckin' lunches. Had to help write up the speech to explain away gutting all those kiddies of their school-appointed nutrients."

Clara knew his moods. There was more heart in Malcolm's voice than even he could often realize, so she knew right away that his humor hid his true disappointment. "Yeah, you asked me to proofread it, remember?" she fired back. "And no, it's not that. I just won't make it back there in time to come back here. Might as well stay."

"Might as well," Malcolm repeated.

Her guilt about having to skive off lunch didn't last long before it hardened into a vexed, inflexible lump, sitting hard in her stomach like lead. _He doesn't get to be angry. He doesn't get to be disappointed, either._ _Not now, not after everything I've put up with til now._ His work intervened with nearly every element of their lives. Sometimes she saw herself less as the wife and more as the other woman in Malcolm's life, hidden and tucked away carefully on the side lest she run the risk of being discovered.

Clara put her face in her hands as she sat at her desk, the mobile sitting in front of her, the screen black as pitch. _Malcolm's home and here I am,_ she thought. It was a miserable miracle indeed. 

* * *

 

No one at Coal Hill knew that Clara was married. Sometimes a few of her fellow teachers will pass their eyes over her ring, but the simple golden band (she left the diamonds at home) soon faded from their attention when she left their field of view. All details that made her a person became far too easy to dismiss since she was no longer an active presence–not because she was shy (she wasn't), or because she didn't talk to her coworkers (she did, and quite a bit), but because what she said was always a deliberately chosen deflection, a means to keep them at bay and pacified with only distorted fragments of truth.

So when the rest of the English department invited her out to dinner as an impromptu sign of camaraderie, Clara knew right away that she would say no. She may like her work, but that fondness lasted as long as it involved the work done in the actual classroom. It was the networking she seemed to have such trouble executing. She always felt too hysterical, too perky, her smiles too forced and efforts too threadbare.

"Sorry, I can't," she'd said, pulling her best regretful expression, half mixed with a smile so as not to look impolite. "I've got a... a thing."

"Oh come on," they jeered, not keen to hear a no for an answer.

"Really, I shouldn't. I have to get home. I'm needed for – something."

She waited for them to press further, to ask why so she could finally, proudly declare the reason she was turning them down. She _wanted_ them to know who she was choosing over them. Clara _wanted_ them to know that she could not only manage the stressful, often thankless job of being an educator, but she could do it on a day as important as when she married the only man she'd ever loved. It wasn't her ego that demanded to reveal such a thing – not _entirely._ Her heart had its fair share in the choice as well, and ached to be denied.

* * *

 

Clara hurried home to see him after giving her coworkers the slip, surprised by the mostly dark house and all signs of abandonment. "Malcolm?" she called out, hearing silence in return.

She headed upstairs, pausing only to drop off her purse and coat on the floor in front of her bedroom door. Malcolm was dozing quietly, one arm beneath his head as a comfortless pillow replacement while the other arm, his left, was stretched out to fill in the space Clara had left behind.

The golden ring on his finger caught the light and her eyes as she took a step forward, shrugging out of her dress jacket, letting it fall in a heap on the as she forced herself out of her boots. She paused at her side of the bed, prying off the backs of her earrings and putting the little pearls to rest on the nightstand in the little golden ring made by the lamp.

Clara heard Malcolm's breath catch, his low, steady snores breaking off in a tense snap. She looked down. Malcolm he was watching her, his eyes alert, intense. He stirred on the bed, propping his head against his hand and watching as she continued to undress, getting down to the black lace slip he had given as a gift. That was back in their courtship days, when both of them were so eager to impress and seem impressive. Little did either one know how much their genuine, flawed selves were the source of all that admiration fast becoming adoration, the selves they didn't try to be, but wanted so desperately to hide.

She held her breath as she undid her garters, giving either one of her stockings a gentle, insistent tug at her thighs, undoing its static cling. "Could this be considered stripping?" she asked, lowering her newly bared leg down so the heel pressed lightly to the floor. She brought up the other leg to stretch out across her side of the bed, bending forward to tug at the nylon tip at the end of her toes.

"It's entertaining, whatever it is," he said. Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position, and he reached out to slide his fingers under her heel while the other hand moved up the back of her leg. Using his nails to skim lightly over her skin, Malcolm pulled down the stocking, starting at the top of her thigh, tugging the little slip of nylon off ger skin in one long, fluid gesture.

Cupping his face with both her hands, Clara showed Malcolm her best crooked grin right before she kissed him once, twice. His hands moved quickly at the start of the third, one gripping tightly to her waist, the other sliding over her back up to her neck, his fingers clinging to her hair and giving it a strong, painless tug.

"Missed me?" she teased, knowing he'd say yes. The answer would burn in his lips and at the heart of every kiss. It would burn its way beneath her flesh with every stroke and touch of his fingers, setting every nerve alight.

"You know I did," Malcolm said, his voice all breath and heat, but the weight of it locked her in place. Her lips paused at his throat, right over the part where his heart beat the hardest. "I missed you, I always miss you. You _know_ that, don't you?"

"I didn't go off on a bloody odyssey, Malcolm," she said. "It was just one little day at work, it's not like I was actually _gone for good_."

She trailed her kisses over his throat up to his cheek, but he turned to greet her mouth with his, one arm curling around her waist to pull her against his chest. The other hand was cupping her face, holding her there as her hair spilled over her face and against his cheeks as he lay back, pulling Clara on top of him.

"But you were once. Gone, I mean," Malcolm said. And he kept talking, taking Clara by surprise. "There was a time, a long time, when you weren't here at all. Before we ever met. When I was too fucking thick to put a name to what I felt, and I didn't want to try until you showed up." He leaned up to give her a kiss between the rush of his words, all the while his fingers tugged at the straps of her slip, pulling it down to reveal her breasts.

"What'd I have to do with it?" she asked, pressing her knees down on either side of his hips, straddling him. He was hard enough and clearly keen to fuck, but she'd rather have an answer before she got into that prolonged pleasure business.

"Had no choice back then, did I?" he said, laughing once. It sounded like a gasp. "In you came and there I was, lonelier than I've ever fucking been."

"How could looking at me make you feel lonely?" Clara rested her hands on his chest, over his shirt this time, her fingers hooking together as she made a little cage over his heart. It was beating steadily beneath her hands, thumping hard, pushing blood and heat and life all through him.

Malcolm was warm beneath her, soon to be inside her, but his eyes cut through and made her gasp as if cold fingers trailed down the little notches along her back. "Because before all I wanted was to be left alone," he said. "And then I met you, and I've wanted nothing else _but_ you since."

It wasn't often that Malcolm talked like this – it was even more rare when she was there to witness it. Mostly he would leave the heartfelt confessions to notes or whispers in her ear. For him to say this here, now, at this time, on this day, for the only reason that made sense ( _he loves you, dear God how he loves you_ ) proved one thing and one thing only: He meant it. He meant every word of it.

With a long, lingering look that he returned with the full force of his stare, the same stare that could make her weak in the knees and moan shamelessly, Clara lowered down and sighed out his name as he entered her. He held onto her hips, steadying her as she set the pace and fell into a fast, deep rhythm that she knew he could match with ease.

And so the two remained, moaning, sighing, whispering, kissing, sometimes even biting if they could hold still long enough for it. With every hard thrust and even more forceful descent, Clara couldn't help but think that this here, this moment shared with this heartbreaking, raw, and sharp-tongued man beneath and within her, so safely at home inside her heart, was a far better miracle than anything she could have hoped to have. It might not have been a perfect anniversary, but it was the one they deserved.


	13. Chapter 13

The wind howled, and the chill it brought bit with the full murderous intent of freezing Clara and Malcolm long before they could arrive at their destination: Henry's Cafe, a local little place bound to fail because it lacks a brand name. At least that's what the neighbors say. Their pessimism isn't exactly catching, though it had taken Clara a little while to make good use of their tip. A bit late, but at least it happened. Better late than never, and other such trite maxims.  

Malcolm didn't bother with the neighbors, for obvious reasons. Sometimes Clara talked to them when they caught her walking from her car up to the front door. She didn't want to be rude and ignore them, but she didn't want to offer more than a simple, breezy hello either.

Clara was not exactly a perky, cheerful social creature. She played one at work, and years earlier when she was a student, but there was little honesty to the art. More effort was made to maintain the artifice. Which wasn't to say she didn't know how to get along with others. She could carry a conversation when required, and she knew how to charm and joke and cooperate with ease out of simple necessity, and not necessarily because she enjoyed it. This thought went doubly so for the neighbours she gained since moving in with Malcolm a few years back, a mere two months before the marriage. Clara knew there was very little she could offer her neighbours that might engender an actual friendship.

 _Who actually am I, anyway?_ Such a deeply rooted question that fast-approached existentialist levels of angst, but Clara didn't mean it as anything more than an expression of incredulity. _Who am I? The hidden Mrs. Tucker, not even allowed to change her name for fear of the press getting wind. The only child of the Oswalds, whose marriage was as short-lived as it was genuine._

Clara's mother passed away when she was nine, taking most of her father's heart with her, and much of her daughter's, too. It would be a while before Clara noticed this lack and loss: some time around her father's second marriage in fact, when she found she had hardly enough love to scrape together to be happy for her father and Linda.

To be less than diplomatic about it, and without exploring details that made Clara's temper dangerously close to boiling over, Linda was a poor choice on her father's part. It was a choice that Clara saw no right to judge and little opportunity to speak about, considering how little she and her father spoke these days. They made a profoundly unremarkable couple whose marriage seemed to linger not out of dedication but a habit too insignificant to break.

"A divorce would call more attention to the marriage than it deserves," Linda had said to a friend last Christmas, not knowing Clara was within earshot just beyond the pale grey smoke swirling from the end of their cigarettes. Clara laughed as she told Malcolm about it later as they were driving home, wondering all the while why he wasn't joining in. She stopped wondering when her tears started to fall, first as broken, uneven dripping and then a wretched stream. He'd held her hand the rest of the way home, not saying a word.

But Clara couldn't let it pass without some attempt at a solution. They were all adults here, and so what if she was the technical child of one and the literal offspring of the other. _All the more reason to step in to help when it's family on the line._

"I'll come 'round to her," her father said in response to a rather serious question Clara asked. "Comin' round's almost as good as loving. That's all a lot of us can hope for. If you can't love 'em, then at least try to like 'em." She'd never brought it up again.

Apart from this particularly grim back story, Clara can't think of much else about her life that would interest her neighbours. It's not that Clara didn't want their friendship, she just wasn't sure what they'd do with it once it started. What face to wear when they talked, and how much and how well should she hide the rest? All Clara had to her credit was a prevailing interest in gardening (rubbish) and internal floral decorating (promising – Malcolm let her have an entire mantle upon which to set up her silk arrangements). She knew the old woman down the way would let her in on a few of her secrets should Clara ask, but she couldn't quite bring herself to bother the woman for advice. She, like all the others on the block, seemed to be well-meaning, well-off, well above average with just enough wealth and just enough happiness and just enough ignorance to coast through life unmolested by its more thorny snarls.

 _But that's me being unfair._ They were at least kind enough not to pry too deeply into her and Malcolm's lives, knowing only that she kept semi-regular hours while her husband was a man more often heard than seen, a disembodied, foul-mouthed phantom. This distance hadn't stopped them from recommending the shop to her. "Tea just like home in there," they promised.

How could Clara resist? Taking a solo trip to Henry’s cafe earlier in the week to check it out, Clara knew from the start that it was just the place for her. She liked the atmosphere, the choice in music (low and unobtrusive, as opposed to more high traffic places that blared god awful music at high tones from speakers hidden in the ceiling). She even liked the décor: the mixture of earthy brown and deep red reminded her of the flat she used to have before she got married. _Like Jane Eyre's red room, only without the lingering mental trauma and possible ghost of a wronged relative._

Taking a look at the menu up on the walls proved promising. Clara was impressed by the variety as well as the cleverness of the names which had all taken on a pre-Christmas holiday pun. There was even a cafe cat who lurked around, taking the best cushioned chairs for herself when she wasn't glaring out the window, a displeased, fluffy sentinel. All in all, it was a charming place for a couple to go on a date, as long as they still cared about that sort of thing, and when she went home later that day she suggested it to Malcolm as a casual, passing comment.

"Do we care about that?" he asked. "The dates, I mean."

"We don’t?" she asked in return.

Malcolm considered this. "Well, how's the coffee?"

"Brilliant. Better than yours."

"Don't lie, it's a terrible habit to start."

"Hark who's talking," Clara had said, winking and slipping her arm through his to show she meant no harm.

 

* * *

 

Today was another rare day off, one in a chain for both her and Malcolm. His was compulsory, hers only because of a surprise gas leak. So of course they decided to spend these days together without actually telling the other one that's what they decided. Like Malcolm, Clara hoped he would just pick up on how much she preferred his company over all other options (forced family visits, outings with still-lingering school friends, the personal seclusion that the little green slab of a backyard offered). Like Malcolm, Clara hoped this preference could be understood without needing to be said. Putting it into words would cheapen the emotion somehow, diluting it from a pure need into a simple uttered expression.

Let love be known, and let it be felt – but don't demand that it be said. _Love and be silent, eh, Cordelia?_

Clara woke up that morning pleased to find Malcolm still with her. His chest was as flush against her back as the position allowed, and when she shifted, drawing herself into a smaller knot of legs and bent knees, he moved closer, surrounding her. Clara dozed off like this, toasty and snug with the combination of his body heat compounding with the heavy blanket and the thermostat kicking in.

A few minutes later, Malcolm moved his stubble-coated cheek against the back of her neck, brushing her hair aside in quick, swift strokes. She hissed and flinched at the not all too rude awakening, but Malcolm held on all the tighter. She could feel him shaking with laughter.

"Stop that," she murmured, tapping his hand a few more times for good measure, hoping to hear that laughter continue.

"Not a chance," he said.

"It's bothering me."

"Thought you liked this unkempt mess of facial hair. Said I should keep it."

He wasn't wrong – but he wasn't right, either. His beard hadn't exactly reached sandpaper quality yet, and as Clara _had_ told him quite recently how much she liked him scruffy and disheveled, along with how comfortable he looked when dressed "incognito," this method of waking her up didn't bother her too much. It was the self-loathing buried beneath the joke that twisted her heart.

Hearing Malcolm go on at length about how he looked – "Like a cross between a fucking charity case and the funny uncle everyone hides the cooking sherry from"  – made Clara sadder than she wanted to admit. She knew her husband could be vain, but not vain enough to be fully conceited to the point of Narcissus incarnate. Malcolm at least looked _up_ from the reflection from time to time. It never frustrated Clara to see him take pride in his appearance and she knew he had a fair bit of pride too, but not enough to let it reach insufferable levels. Not like the kind that had her walking on eggshells every time she paid her father a visit.

Linda came to mind, and then promptly left it with a tremendous force of Clara's will. She didn't want her step-mother and her husband to occupy the same time frame of thoughts. There was little ground of comparison for them, for start. Linda was the type of person who would thrive in the sort of atmosphere that made Malcolm ache without a sound, the way poison could nourish rather than torment those accustomed to the vitriol. And Malcolm was... different. He was very different.

As Clara lay there in bed, suppressing laughter at the continued itchy assault of Malcolm's scritchy cuddles, she laid the thought out for her to better understand. Malcolm had long since known and grown accustomed to both his value and the scope of his power when it came to his job. He knew the value and power that went into the mask and the life he had let cultivate inside him over years of cultivating media spin – and he hated it. He hated it as much as he needed the power and the mask and the vanity to succeed and thrive. The more it grew, the more it could pass as believable in the eyes of others. Even to himself.

So when Clara had admitted to liking him in all these various states and faces, even the unsightly one – him as he was beneath it all, dressed down, unshaven, tousled and delightfully rumpled, almost pre-human before a cup of coffee found its way into his system – her heart broke to see Malcolm laugh. He laughed long enough for her doubts to start creeping in. Did he not believe her? Or did he find it so hard for himself to believe?

"I'd say that's almost a deliberate misunderstanding of a compliment," she said archly, rolling her eyes. Clara shifted her head to shoot a side-long glare over her shoulder. Malcolm looked down the length of his nose at her, offering an impishly charming grin in exchange for Clara's dour stare. After a moment, the position became too uncomfortable to hold. She pushed away and turned to face him, lowering down on the too tempting warmth of his arms.

With her head on Malcolm’s chest, listening to the sounds of him breathing and his heart beating steadily, Clara said, "I said I liked it on _you_. I didn't say I liked it on me."

Malcolm heaved a little laughing sigh. "That's good to hear. I _was_ starting to wonder about your chin," he said, running his fingers underneath it in a touch light enough to tickle without quite committing to the deed.

Clara squirmed and held in a laugh of her own. "Don't you _dare_."

"And how's that upper lip?" he asked, holding her chin, offering that still charming smile when she lifted her head off his chest to glare at him. His fingers were long enough to cup her chin while the thumb strayed up, running the tip of his finger over her top lip. "God, that's a fucking moustache in the making."

"Shut up, it is not," was all Clara managed to say in response, taken in by the look he gave her. She was just as captivated by the way his thumb traced the edge of her lips, following the length of her fast-growing smile.

She was quickly approaching breathlessness. Little moments like this laid her love bare, letting it thrive in the open light before necessity required its burial again. Some things were too tender to show. Malcolm knew this just as well as her.

The loud grumbling of their stomachs was what got them out of bed and on their way to Henry's cafe. If it weren't for that, Clara thought she and Malcolm were all set and content with the idea of sleeping in for a full day. The weather held out long enough for them to come within range of the cafe; and they were only a few steps away when the downpour began in full, soaking Clara down past her coat, skirt, and tights within seconds.

Cursing under her breath, she darted inside the cafe and held the door open for Malcolm to follow. He was uncharacteristically silent, letting Clara be the one to send out the stream of complaints. As he listened, Malcolm brushed some of the rain off Clara's shoulders, nodding along to her half-hearted protests about a raincoat and all its design purposes failing. His mouth quirked into that smirk she loved. It was an unguarded smile, a true smile – the smile he showed only to her and her alone.

“You would hope that a weather resistant coat would mean it would, you know, _resist the weather._ ”

“Resist and repel are two different things.”

“I didn’t say repel.”

“No, but you’re thinking it.” His touch lingered long enough to be felt beneath the layers of clothing. She couldn't help but notice how his warmth was apparent even through the chill. She often said he generated enough heat to make her flush-faced from physical acts no more strenuous than simple spooning.

Clara pressed her fingers against his palm, holding on as tightly as she could. His fingers, long and thin, engulfed hers, and he flashed a quick, easy grin.

It was a small thing, really. But the small thing itself was a miracle. These days off had done Malcolm a world of good. He was more relaxed, and it had taken only a matter of days to undo the tension and deeply-embedded fury that work buried within him for years.

And then a voice said, " _Malcolm_?", and the miracle shattered.

Clara could tell at once that Malcolm knew who this person was. A horrible rictus look froze over his face. It was the look Clara saw when his mask sealed in place every morning. And just like then, every damn day, all she could do was watch, a wordless witness to his discomfort.

"Ollie."

A shiver ran down her back. Clara had never heard him sound so restrained and yet so thunderously savage, and all he had said was just one word. A name.

For a second Clara wanted to joke or say something to break the awful, obvious tension that had built up within seconds, a line of fire stretching between Malcolm and whoever this Ollie person was. She knew this was a defense mechanism, this tendency towards making peace. Nothing more than an impulse she had cultivated into a nervous, strained habit, one Clara would like to drop flat and leave abandoned. _Just one more thing I got from dear old Dad: smile, hold it all together, and keep your heart to yourself._ _It was a miracle neither of them had an ulcer yet._

Clara took one look at Malcolm and his rigid expression, his eyebrows closing over the stinging, chilling glare. In a heartbeat she made up her mind.

 _I won't do it. I won't play nice – at least, not as much as I would if Malcolm weren't here_. He might not know it yet, but Malcolm's simple presence acted as a wordless, unintentional encouragement for Clara to drop the mask and get rid of the lie that lived far too long inside: that Clara was sweet, little, perky, and oh so kind. It was the sight of his anger that freed her.

This was just one more reason she so cherished and admired Malcolm. He might be many things, a skilled liar prominent among them, and Clara knew that not all of these things were kind, but he had never been a doormat. Never learned how to be, and could never be expected to manage such a gutless, spineless servility. Clara liked to think Malcolm knew why she had this habit that one might crudely define as being an incessant control freak. What he knew about her family was surely enough of a breadcrumb trail to lead him to some bit of understanding. Clara always hoped his lack of judgment was because he knew she wasn't really like that beneath it all, that she didn't want to have this placid eternal victim as her public mask, similar to how she hoped he knew that she was well aware of the shame that went into his own daily disguise.

The man – Ollie – tapped his fingers against the table, looking between Malcolm and Clara in a quick, curious sweep. He slowly took in how Malcolm was dressed, along with the obvious traces of facial hair on his cheeks and chin, but his small eyes lingered longer on Clara's face. She could feel herself smiling, an automatic, forced expression.

It was not long before Ollie pointed at Clara, leaning back in his chair as he turned his attention once again to Malcolm. "So, who's this?" he asked.

Clara's smile slipped. _What sort of man talks about a woman as if she's not even there – and defaults the question to another man, no less?_ It doesn't take Clara long to answer her own question.

 _Unctuous, self-assured, the sort of person who exists to be humbled and shot down at every turn presented._ If he was anything like the sort of people Malcolm dealt with every day, it was no wonder he was so damn vicious as a general rule. Only a few moments with Ollie had reduced Clara to a mere shred of impatience.

Looking at him again, Clara felt comfortable in assuming a man like Ollie didn't have any ultimate significance. Not really. He was not the sort of man who could on occasion take command, but the truth of it all – the truth he didn't want to accept – was that he was the sort of man who thought he had more value than he rightly did. It was something about his face, something about the air that hung around him, like a weakness of character that raised an almighty stink. Clara prided herself on being an astute reader of others. It helped her know how little to say around them, and how many lies to tell. 

Before Malcolm could answer in what would no doubt be an explosion of mouth-frothing ferocity, Clara stepped forward, pulled out the chair across from Ollie, and sat down. She held out her hand for him to take, making sure to smile again – but it was a different smile this time. Something about it made Ollie pause, which gave her courage. Just as intended.

"I'm Clara," she said with the perfect air of politeness, and added on a harmless lie at the end. "Nice to meet you."

She shook his hand. It was clammy and weak.

"Yeah... Likewise." Ollie stammered as he watched Malcolm sit down at the nearest empty chair. Malcolm moved with deliberate ease, hands folded one over the other and coming to rest on the table in the little bare expanse of polished oak. His eyes were on Clara's other hand, still squeezing Ollie's. It was hard to read his expression. This, too, felt deliberate.

Clara took a breath and kept her eyes from Malcolm's face. It wasn't easy, nor was it a natural thing since he was looking right at Clara. The weight of his gaze did not hold Clara down, nor did it keep her tongue pinned to the roof of her mouth for fear or nerve's sake. It was a force that encouraged like a warm push or a sharp prod. Did he know he had this power over her? What more could he do if he did?

"Do you know Malcolm well?" Clara asked.

"Yeah – well, we er, we work together. So I imagine I do. Thought I did," Ollie said. He isn't stammering, not quite, but he did so in a way that showed he was gaining speed, gathering together words in a neat little line that didn't always reveal the full extent of his thoughts, but were meant to make others reach out for them.

His behaviour was a lead. Clara knew it was a lead. She had seen Linda do this for years when she was a teenager, drawing out words and thoughts from her step-daughter that wouldn't have ever thought to confide if she hadn't thought Linda would be supportive. But the false-front of support was just that. And all of Clara's affection had gone misplaced, was nothing more than something for Linda to pick apart and hurl aside, paring Clara down to a smaller, timid size. She continued the habit even now that Clara was an adult and knew better than to seek out Linda's advice. It was usually about the way she lived her life, or how Clara wasn't living it.

"And what about you?" Ollie asked, his voice drawing Clara out of her thoughtful silence. He glanced at Malcolm, but soon decided his eyes and attention were safer on her. "How do you two know each other?"

Clara looked at her husband. Ollie saw her looking and there was some kind of awareness that darkened his expression. It was as if a small bit of understanding descended and a light clicked on as thoughts slid into place.

If it were any other person engaging her in conversation, Clara wouldn't feel nearly as tense and wary. Not even the comforting air of the cafe could set her at ease: there was far too much in front of her that inspired stress, demanding her attention and the full extent of her emotional dedication. There was something about him she just didn't _like_.

Just as Clara started to speak, deciding on a lie to Ollie's question, Malcolm cut her off. "What the fuck do you want?" he asked, his eyes on Ollie.

Ollie looked as if he could cower but he held his ground as well as a reedy thing like him could manage, especially under the sort of look that Malcolm was giving him. "The usual expectation for spending time in a coffee shop is that one plans to drink coffee," he said. "Or I would, if they ever got around to calling my name."

"It's a bit busy. I imagine they'll remember you eventually," Clara said. The storm has kept as many people indoors as the capacity could allow, and there was even a few people who choose to stand and lean against the walls, waiting for tables to open up as they hovered over their drinks for warmth.

Ollie forced a flat, clunky chuckle. "Yeah, eventually," he said, shifting his chair closer to the table, edging it just a few paces away from Malcolm, like an insect who finally learned to shy from a flame. "So are you two... together?" he asked. "Like an actual, normal couple?"

Malcolm was a frayed nerve beside her, seething and glaring, but again it was Clara who made the first move.

"Yes, we are," she said. She put her left hand onto Malcolm's and held it tight, a warning squeeze given as a plea for silence. Clara held on tight enough to make the bones of her hand shift and press against her skin. At least Malcolm was warm beneath her hand, warm and steady and _there._ That's what mattered.

The movement of her hand, more than her words, had the intended effect. Ollie noticed her wedding ring and his expression of utter disbelief would be hilarious if it weren't needling Clara's patience down to a worn thread. "That's... Well, er. That's something," he said, smiling flat and rigid, wooden. "Congratulations," he added. "I didn't know you had it in you to make time for a social life, Malcolm.”

"Oh, something you don't know, there's a fucking surprise," Malcolm lobbed back. His voice didn't go any louder than what could pass as a pleasant conversation's tone, but it was clear from the look on his face and the way he was speaking that he would rather swallow glass than be sitting here.

"It's a fair assumption to make, considering..." Ollie started, but he didn't finish. He looked at Clara again, at her hand still resting on Malcolm's.

"So how did you two lovebirds meet?" he asked. "It wasn't a sort of advertisement or... hotline number, was it?"

Clara’s nails pressed into the palm of her other hand, drawing the fury in. If it were anyone else making this joke, she might laugh at it. Hell, she might even enjoy it and smile, the corners of her mouth and her teeth glittering sharp like knives drawn out.

But she didn't enjoy it. Because yes, she did love Malcolm. And yes, she knew he loved her too. She felt it when he touched her, making Clara's body electric and wild with caresses tame and torrid. She felt it even when his hands were nowhere near her, when it was just his eyes and all the force of them sliding over her like a velvet glove, tracing every ache and path down to the tender part of her heart.

Clara loved Malcolm, and she didn't like how this almost stranger called any of that into question. She didn't like the suggestion left dangling in the silence, knowing it was her choice whether to ask him to elaborate, or for her to simply ignore the insult. Both were torments. Both felt a bit like giving in, and Clara didn't want to settle for either one.

Clara heard herself talking before she knew she wanted to answer. "No, see I just happened to pick the same part of Westminster to hurl myself off of as he did, and well, once you're up there you may as well make a friend before the end, right? Only before I knew it, I found out I'd rather be with him than fall and die. So – here we are."

Both men were staring at her – and for once, they both looked the same: Surprised. Malcolm hid his shock better than Ollie. Ollie took all this in for one long, stunned moment. Malcolm did too. There was something about the lie that put a look on his face that damn near broke her heart. It was not a look of hurt, no, it was nothing even close, and certainly nothing to be shown around a man like Ollie. It was some awful kind of love Clara never thought he'd show in public – though now that she had her eyes on him properly, Clara thought it was more fair to say that instead of love, Malcolm was looking at her the same way a man burned for the nearest, dimmest light. However small a flame it was, it was a flame and he'd bend to it, he'd lean to it – he would let it warm him.

"I’m—I’m sorry, did I hear you right?” It was clear that Ollie was surprised to discover Clara's temper, not necessarily that it existed, but that it could exist to the extent that it does. Clara knew she wasn't yet a match for Malcolm's wrath, but she was far from demure.

"Yeah, joking about offing myself wasn't exactly nice, was it?" Clara fired back, not waiting for Ollie to reply. She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, looking him square in the eye for a long, quiet moment. "But so's implying I'm a whore."

A few things happened at once. Ollie started to stammer again. Clara didn't think he was going to apologize, she didn't quite care what he wanted to say to come up with a potential alternative. Malcolm sat up straighter, noticing the dagger sharp edge in Clara's eyes, hearing the wrath in her voice – and he smiled. It caught Clara off guard. She thought of a man leaning in to a flame again, and she realized with characteristic belatedness just _what_ the look he was giving her meant.

 _He's burning for you_. It was the same look he gave Clara in the lift. The same as their anniversary night – the same as any night when he was riveted to her, pivoting every point of his world around her breath and stare and smile.

The barista called Ollie's name, but he didn’t move. He was looking at Clara, cheeks near to flushing, not quite embarrassed but certainly stumbling now that she had let out a bit of her ire.

Clara stood up. "Well I'd love to stay and talk with you, Oliver – is it Oliver? Such a shame, what parents think they can get away with in a name. But anyway, we really ought to go."

Clara made a show of stepping out of her chair and pushing it against the table. The metal beads on the end of the legs shrieked against the ground just loud enough to be heard over the music. She spared Ollie one more glance, quick and painless, the kind of look that might manage to kill one day. "Sorry to rush. I'm sure you're a treat to have around but I'd really rather lie down in traffic."

She walked over to the counter where the barista set Ollie's drinks. She picked them up, keeping Ollie's for herself. She passed the second drink over to Malcolm, who had followed her example and left the table just as quickly as she had. He was beaming at Clara with a small, crooked smile, his eyes glinting with pride. She winked at him once before stepping around to pass Ollie, who had just now risen out of his chair.

"Take care!" Clara said, waving at him. "Don't give my husband any trouble, yeah?" Clara opened the door before Ollie could answer.

 

* * *

 

Blowing gently against the steam rising from the slit in the lid, Clara smiled up at Malcolm. "I feel sorry for you," she said.

His eyebrows shifted just a little. The drink was tiny in his hands, the white lid barely visible over the curve of his long fingers. "Why would you?" he asked.

Clara took a sip of whatever drink Ollie bought. She scowled, pulled a face, and chucked the cup into the nearby bin. _Disgusting._ Malcolm handed off his drink, and she took a few exploratory sips of the tea and smiled, wetting her lips with the mixture of citrus and sweetness. Malcolm's eyes were on her mouth, so she made a show of drawing out her answer, slipping her arm through his and leading him gently down the pavement back up the road, back towards home.

"Having to put up with a man like that for more than three minutes? Yeah, I think feeling bad's a fair response to have."

"He's relatively harmless," Malcolm said, walking fast. Clara worked to keep up, well aware of how warm he was beside her, well aware of how he was looking at her as if he could burn his gaze into every inch of her skin to trace out the patterns of where his lips would soon be. "He's like a toddler, you know. His primary functions are shitting where he sits and making a lot of loud, disruptive noises that may someday be proper fuckin' words. But that's it."

"Are they all that bad?" she asked. "The others, I mean. Your co-workers or underlings. Whatever you call them."

"You know, sweetheart," he started to say, scratching at his nose and smiling down at Clara, "They're not nearly as fucking awful as they could be. Not always. Most of them can be endured."

Clara considered this in silence. "I still wouldn't want to deal with him every day," she said.

"You made that clear," Malcolm said, his voice low enough to be near a purr. _There's that look in his eyes again._ He was proud of what Clara did, of what she said – even if it was horrible and mostly a lie besides.

Clara drank her tea fast, needing the warmth and the sweetness because she was dangerously close to a sharp, nagging sadness that had taken her by surprise. It helped that Malcolm gently dislodged his arm from hers and pressed his hand against the small of her back, slipping it under her coat so that his touch could have its full impact. Fingers flat against her back, just above the waistband of her skirt and the zipper dangling there, Malcolm pressed his hand with just enough of a weight to make her step quicken, every nerve inside her focused on the sensations of that tiny bit of Clara he had under his command. He was possessive in a way that didn't oppress, protective in a way that didn't smother – it was that strange power he had coming back to show itself again. Clara wondered when she would find a way to tell him he had such a hold over her, or if she ever even should. _Might go to his head if I'm not careful._

Malcolm was smart enough to understand the significance of how she craved to be craved by him, how she ached to be vulnerable with him in a way that could only be soothed in his own particular way. Even if he didn't understand it, even if he didn't quite know how the hell she had managed to find a home in him, the home was there. She wondered if one day she would be like that for him, to him. Possessive, protective, the one thing in this world that could bring him to kneel and heel. _Hell, maybe I am already and this is his way of saying it._ It didn't hurt to hope.

The tea was finished long before they arrived back home, the taste of it coating Clara's tongue in a thick, sweet coat. Her key was in the lock and she shouldered open the door in one swift step, which just barely managed to shut before Malcolm was on her, his hands on her face, lifting it up for a kiss so hard that it made Clara's knees bend.

He was prepared for that; his hands left her face so fast that the warmth quickly faded. Its absence burned, but it wasn't long before he wrapped his arms around her, guiding Clara as gently as he could to the floor.

"The _floor_?" she spat out in between every kiss.

"The floor," he echoed back in a grunt.

Malcolm moved his hands to her front again. His coat was off, the cardigan tugged over his head in that way that men can do – one swift, casual, hasty pull that reveals skin in a trice. It tousled his hair but Clara had little time to enjoy the sight. His lips were on hers again, his tongue slipping inside as he tasted the sweetness that thrived in her mouth.

Clara had only just started to shrug out of her rain coat, letting it fall out behind her before his hands slipped down her chest and then up under her shirt at the back, reaching for the clasp of her bra. He was getting better at undoing it with one hand.

"Calm down. I'm not going anywhere," Clara gasped as Malcolm pressed his hips harder against her, one knee coming up to gently coax her legs to open. Her skirt worked up around her hips and she began to on shimmy out of her 'hose. It was a somewhat slow process what with Malcolm being on top of her, though at least he was helping Clara out of her clothes. But this too was more than a little distracting.

After an awkward few minutes, most of Clara's clothes were now discarded save for her skirt. He reached down to hold Clara's face in between his hands again. The kiss was long. It lingered, it burned. Clara shivered. How could he make her feel so weak when she was already on her back? How much further could she fall than this?

"You were fucking brilliant, you know that?" he asked, his lips grazing over her.

Her eyes snapped open. This was not what she expected to hear. It was not exactly what she wanted to hear, either. "I lied, Malcolm," she said, the words turning her mouth sour. Not even a kiss could salvage it – but that thought came before he moved his lips to her neck, the scruff of his five o'clock shadow tickling her again, making her squirm and arch up with a giggling gasp. "I _lied_ and I lied about something awful, and I – _Malcolm_! – I stole too, that's not – that's not brilliant, that's..."

He moved down as she spoke, his mouth closing over her breast. Clara felt the hint of teeth and the flick of his tongue just as his other hand reached down between her legs, feeling her, testing. The noise she made was absolutely indecent. Malcolm moved his attention to her other breast, sliding another finger inside. Every stroke was long, his fingers curling, matching the pace at which he was lavishing attention onto her breast.

Clara's fingers curled in his hair, pulling and pushing in equal turns, not quite sure where she wanted his mouth to go next. Three fingers were in her now, as deep as the knuckle, which is when he moved his mouth up to silence Clara's panting gasps with one more kiss. It was hard work keeping her eyes open, but she would rather die than miss the fire in his gaze. He was burning still, burning and bending and leaning to the flame he saw in her. And she was burning for him too, the way that stars can miss their kindred sun when the morning came, fading too fast before they saw him.

"You were good," he said. "You were horrible – and you were good."

He was proud of her. Clara knew it was her temper, this first real peek at it directed towards someone he was clearly less than fond of, that got him so wild and riled. She planted her heels into the floor and pushed up, meeting every stroke of his fingers. Malcolm watched Clara for a few moments, keeping his touch gentle despite moving in deeper. And then it all abated for a few seconds, long enough for Clara to hiss and start to protest, her teeth clenched, temper flaring up again.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Clara growled. "You finish it, Malcolm. Do it."

"Not goin' anywhere, sweetheart," he said, murmuring her own words back to her.

Clara wrapped her arms and legs around him. Her body hummed with her own kind of pride. In a matter of minutes, she no longer wondered if she could bring this misleadingly vicious man to kneel. Clara knew now in the moments they shared on the floor, only mere steps from the front door, as the pair of them moaned and grunted all manner of horrid, indecent things to each other, about the other, and what they wanted the other to do, that she surely achieved that particular milestone already. They would break the backs of love for the other and make sure to offer every treasure scrap from down on their bent knees, head bent and arms raised. They would bend and bow and protect and submit for each other, because of each other, together - and this was how they said it.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm left for work early the next morning, but he left behind a note scrawled in all haste. Clara discovered it in front of the still warm coffee pot.

_My turn with Ollie today – I'll bring back his scrotum on a spike. Clear some room in the den, yeah? I've got just the best spot for it._

_XX_

Clara thought about calling to tell him there was really no need to say anything to Ollie, but she couldn’t bring herself to dial. Her hand lowered and released the phone in a slow, mechanical descent.

It was just possible – or more than likely – that this would be the one thing that forced them to stop living their lives and their marriage as if it was a word too filthy to utter. Clara nudged her phone further away before she could change her mind.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another "please forgive errors due to human fallibility and my illness" disclaimer.

Another steady mound of snow was piling up outside the window, but its accompanying chill couldn't reach Clara from where she lay tangled up in bed, buried beneath blankets and sheets and warm arms and even warmer caresses. Her husband was helping with most of that.

"Malcolm?" she muttered. His name was as warm in her mouth.

Malcolm moved his mouth and breath over the spot where Clara's heart beat the hardest, intent on tasting the skin there. "Just seeing if you're awake," he said, running his fingertips across her collarbone and then up along the other side of her neck.

Clara closed her eyes, all the better to focus and feel him. Malcolm's touch moved in the sort of languid, lingering caress that made shivers run down Clara's back, shivers he could feel in his own skin.

"You can see with your mouth and fingers now?" she asked. "Aren't you just a man of endless talent."

"So nice of you to finally acknowledge it," he laughed, admiring how her face looked in that moment. He fell in love again to the sound of her hitched breath and the worryingly lovely sight her pursed lips.

"I've noticed it plenty of times before," Clara said, squirming as his teeth put in a quick appearance. She kept her eyes open in a sort of determined, furious stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the morning burn away to pale shapes and tones of grey. She took a breath to clear her head, needing all the air she could get as Malcolm continued to lavish attention on her. "You just couldn't let me sleep, could you?" she asked, forcing her fingers out of Malcolm's hair before they tugged hard enough to yank his head back. Both of them were disappointed this didn't come to pass.

The kisses stopped at once. She felt Malcolm frown against her throat.

"We've been over this before," he said.

That sounded like a complaint. It was Clara's turn to frown. "We've been over this before because you won't stop _doing_ it."

"Look, I've _told_ you. It's no fun being awake this early by myself," Malcolm argued, looking absolutely unperturbed by the fact that this argument was, indeed, a bit silly.

Clara pushed her fingers against his forehead and gave his head a short, sharp shove. "I'm sure most of the greater London area that keeps to your mad schedule would rally in support if they were in bed with us right now," she fired off, speaking far too quickly for someone who had only just woken up. "But it's just me here with you. Me, your very sleepy wife – who has her _own_ sleep schedule. A schedule that's very much directly opposite of yours."

As Clara spoke, Malcolm adjusted his positioned so that he lay on top of her, positioning his narrow waist between her legs. "D'you know what _else_ is directly opposite of yours?" he asked, grinning down at her impishly.

Clara stared at him. She wouldn't blush. No, she wouldn't. "That's not even clever _,_ " she huffed. "And it doesn't even work, we have different – Malcolm, all I _wanted_ was to sleep."

" _You_ _can_ sleep, I'm not here to fucking stop you," he said, settling down lower so he could rest his head against her heart. Malcolm's long hands slid under her back to pull himself even closer to her chest. "As the past four hours expertly demonstrated, you have zero fucking problem dozing off for a nice long spell when I'm in bed with you," he added, sounding just a touch annoyed.

Clara could feel Malcolm's pulse thudding away against her lower stomach, just above the heat growing between her legs. "I'm afraid that says more about you than it does about me," she said, giving the top of his head a sympathetic pet. "Why are you up so early? You don't have to go to work today."

"I'm an almost free man up through the new year – _officially_ , that is," Malcolm said. His voice rumbled in that lower register they both knew Clara loved, travelling down through her chest to rattle her bones. Her own voice, soft though it was, had a similar effect on him. "Unofficially I can be called upon at any fucking time to cheerfully beat trouble-makers to plasma-dripping pulp. Might add a bit of tinsel to the puddle when I'm done, just to make sure it's festive, you know? Maybe throw in some holly as well."

When Malcolm lowered his head back down to her chest, Clara decided it was time to spring the next question on him. "No really, why _are_ you awake this early? Did you stay up late writing angry emails for Sam to clean up again?"

Malcolm's silence was as guilty as any confession. Clara sighed. "That's not fair, Malcolm. You know you shouldn't bother her in the middle of the night."

"Now that's a bit unfair to me. It's not strictly _bothering_ if it's done because –" he began, but Clara didn't let him get too far into that sentence.

Using her free hand to create a little shield with her palm, Clara pressed her hand down flat against Malcolm's mouth. "Yes, yes, you're an incredibly important man who has incredibly important and angry things to say," she mumbled. "And if you didn't get it done in the middle of the night then you'd never get that mess out of you head and would... I dunno, drop dead or something."

Malcolm shifted his head so he could free his mouth. "I can't help but notice you don't sound too troubled by this possibility," he said.

Clara rolled her eyes. "You’re too stubborn to die like that. You'd probably just linger out of spite and malice anyway." She smiled as she said it, so Malcolm could know she meant no harm at all, that she meant nothing but love. “The only part that troubles me is how you manage to stay angry for so long. I can hear you grinding your teeth in my sleep."

Malcolm shrugged, clearly unconcerned about the disastrous state of future dentist visits. "I'll have to go for the iron dentures next time I'm in the chair," he said. "Remind me to ask for them, yeah? Just get a big fucking metal bear-trap soldered on to my jaw."

"Please don't," she said.

"It would make marital activities a bit less than satisfying," he admitted, giving Clara a knowing glance as he wriggled closer just to drive the point home.

The smile slipped off her face. "Well, now I'm awake _and_ traumatized. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he said. Malcolm looked Clara dead in the eye, and made sure that his gaze was full of a warm, dizzying heat, the same kind he felt each time they lay like this. The same kind of heat she could feel building up through her body, no matter how much her mind insisted otherwise.

Clara recognised that look without delay. She watched carefully, her heart quickly kicking off into a rapid beat, as Malcolm kissed the bit of skin between her breasts. His lips lingered as she let out a tiny sigh, relishing the sound as he kissed her again, moving lower this time. Each touch of his lips was as gentle as the kisses he'd pressed against her shoulder and neck, like warm little whispers that could freeze and tease and excite and enrage in equal turns, sometimes in the same second.

"Is this why you wanted me to wake up?" Clara asked, suppressing a gasp.

Malcolm didn't answer. Not immediately. Moving one hand under her back, Malcolm ran his fingers down to the small dent just at the base of her spine. Pressing the ends of his nails in a touch that was feather-light but monstrously enticing all the way down her left thigh, Clara actually _felt_ Malcolm's mouth slip into a grin as he held his mouth against her skin. His lips were poised right above the aching warmth that had been building steadily inside Clara's stomach for the past few minutes. The _bastard_.

"Maybe," Malcolm said, moving his head even lower down to kiss the inside of her thigh. He didn't speak again for the next deliriously satisfying minutes.

 

* * *

 

Later, after they both found their way down into the kitchen for breakfast, Malcolm brought up the surprising subject of some last-minute shopping he had to get done – shopping he would be "ever so fucking grateful" not to do alone.

"If you would be so kind, of course, " he added, smiling at Clara as he picked up the dishes to drop into the sink.

"So _this_ is why you woke me up with all that lip action," she said, more amused than she was astonished. Ignoring Malcolm's affronted glare, she continued. "You wanted to sweeten me up so you could ask me to go out shopping with you. _Christmas_ shopping, no less. When it's _two days_ before Christmas. Brilliant plan, really. Well done. _Stellar._ "

"Right, yeah, you've got me," Malcolm snorted, washing his hands at the tap and drying them on a nearby wash-cloth. "I was far more fucking interested in having your company through the local festive shitstorm than I was in making you come," he argued. But Clara still wasn't fully convinced.

"It was both though, wasn't it? It's okay if it was both," she said, grinning. "I won't get angry. Promise. Still too relaxed in the aftermath to care much."

"Do me a favour and share some of it, then. I'm too fucking sour for an off day – and that's _me_ saying that, right?"

"Would it also cheer you up to know that today is technically an anniversary of ours?" she asked.

Malcolm paused. His mind churned away fast, firing off a series of dates and times and places and activities that could possibly be affixed to this day. Very few came up. "It's not that Tesco run-in, is it?" he said, though he was a bit more certain than he sounded.

Clara nodded, as pleased with him as she was proud that she even remembered. "It is indeed the Tesco run-in - well, _postponed_ five days. You had to work on the actual day, I'm afraid."

Malcolm grumbled something that could have been an apology if Clara had let him finish it.

"C'mon, Scrooge. No frowning. We've got a Christmas list to cross off," she said, patting his back.

Malcolm put his hands on Clara's shoulders and held her out at arm’s length. He leaned close, putting his face right up against hers. "Don't you ever call me that again," he said. But his solemn, forbidding expression didn't last long once she started to laugh. It never did.

 

* * *

 

The sky outside was granite grey by the time they arrived in the wild heart of London. Clara looked at the stretch of dark clouds overhead, a clear promise of more snow. But it wasn't the weather that worried her as much as the day itself.

"It's quite literally only a few hours before Christmas," she said again, waiting for Malcolm to catch up before she held out her hand. "It'll be absolute chaos no matter where we go, and there may be far too many screaming children around for you to handle. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

"I have been out during the Christmas season before, sweetheart. I know what to expect." Malcolm took her hand and fell into step next to her. "Look, we're not going to fucking hurl ourselves into the Yuletide snake pit for long, alright? Only a few hours at most. We can handle that with no problem. And it'll be nice to get out of the house for a change, eh?"

She wasn't half as resistant to the outing as she seemed. It _was_ nice to spend time with Malcolm outside of the same four walls. _It's almost as if we're on a proper date, like a normal couple._ Clara started talking again to distract herself from this surprisingly painful thought. "Who exactly are we shopping for anyway? Not your niece, I thought we got her taken care of weeks back. Before she and your sister left for Majorca."

"No, she's set," Malcolm said, squeezing Clara's hand. This tiny form of contact sent a thrill along every single one of her nerves. Knowing that he dared to do this in public filled Clara with a strange fire, something bold and reckless and brutal.

"Well it's not Amy and Rory - we sent them off for a second honeymoon in Thailand."

"Yes, and I'm quite miffed that you got in a facial joke before I could. It was my turn to make Rory blush. Amy and I had a bet on."

Clara shook her head. Her reconciliation with her two dearest friends had been as unexpected as it was thoroughly welcomed, but even she couldn't have guessed just how well Malcolm and Amy would get along. _Must be a Scottish thing._ "Focus, Malcolm. We're talking about gifts."

"It's just for some sad sacks from around the office. Sam helped handle most of the little people. DoSAC and the like. But there are a few stragglers."

"And they are?"

"Jamie, Robyn Murdoch – you haven't met her yet, too much of a hazard – and that stringy knobhead, Ollie. You stole his coffee after he implied you were of a certain professional persuasion, remember?"

All three names made Clara frown but all for entirely different reasons. "Jamie makes sense," she started to say. "He's your best friend, of course you should buy something for him. Though when I say friend, I'm being just a bit too nice."

"Don't cast judgement on the wee man, sweetheart," Malcolm said, though something about her tone made him smirk. "You don't know him like I do."

"I am not and I know I don’t," Clara said, shaking her head. "He was very nice when I met him four years ago. For five minutes. He even helped me into my robe."

"What?"

"How is he, do you know?" Clara asked, enjoying the way Malcolm peered down at her with a sudden spasm of muscle and skin tightening his neck.

"He's alive and well-and seriously considering going back to seminary school," Malcolm said.

"What?" Clara would have stopped dead if he weren't holding onto her hand.

Malcolm gently tugged her along around the corner, keeping her from knocking into a collection of prams full of shrieking children.

"Well as long as Jamie's happy. Or close to it. That's what matters." Bone-freezing wind swept over Clara's face, making her shiver. It sounded like a trite wish, but she meant every word as sincerely as a cold, grumpy person being glared at by an angry grey owl could be. She had nothing but fond wishes to spare for Malcolm's verbally violent friend, even if she had only met him by sheer accident.

Four years ago Jamie had come over to Malcolm's house shouting about an emergency regarding health records and "some leaky fucking mingebox" down at NHS. These less than delightful words came to an abrupt stop as he strode towards the living room and found Clara sitting on the couch, clearly not the audience he had been expecting. That she was only wearing one of Malcolm's shirts and a wide-eyed stunned expression only made Jamie all the more perplexed.

Once the initial confusion and introductions were out of the way, and Jamie had kindly fetched her robe so she could feel a bit more dressed, Clara found that he was a bizarrely pleasant man, all things considered. Brash and loud and unrepentantly Scottish, but that wasn't exactly a problem.

"So, Clara - did you hear all that, when I came in?" Jamie asked, looking directly into her eyes. He accepted a mug of coffee with a quick nod and a quiet " _thanks_ ", sounding far more polite than a vulgar man should be.

Clara returned his stare, unmoved by his eyes sharp, hard edge. Jamie had striking blue eyes that were brighter than Malcolm's, and there was something about their cutting intensity she quite liked. There was no mistaking the thoughts that went on behind eyes like those–no storms, no clouds, no haze at all. His was an honest gaze that could no doubt make most people uneasy.

Her responding smile made Jamie's stare cut in harder, as if he were trying to see through the kindness to the truth beneath. "I did hear a bit of it. But half of it didn't make sense, and the other half felt too much like something I'd be better off ignoring."

It was at this point that Clara had lifted her mug with both hands to have a sip. The golden wedding band most people ignored caught Jamie's attention, making his eyes flash. His sudden grin was voracious, but it was his laughter breaking out like an explosion, obliterating the tension in the room, that made Clara jump.

"He fuckin' did _not_ ," he said, shaking his head.

"He didn't what?"

Jamie pointed at Clara's hand. Her left hand.

Clara wriggled the one finger she thought was the cause of this sudden outburst. "Ah, right. That." She nodded. "Well–yes, he did."

After that, Jamie had been more than happy to wait for Malcolm to come back from the shop so he could hear about the proposal and subsequent wedding in great, painstaking detail.

Most of the other interactions she and Jamie had after that were quick messages dashed off on the phone or in emails, and sometimes even the rare birthday card. It'd been so comforting to have someone on the outside know about her and Malcolm, someone that could be trusted not to carry the knowledge off to eager ears, less out of respect for the pair of them and more out of a belief that they were - to quote him directly - "deliriously fucking mental to even bother making it more than a one off." But he'd wished them well despite this, and it was his laughter and the mad, delightful force that was Jamie's entire presence that Clara found herself missing more than she once thought. And she knew it could only be worse for Malcolm.

Clara truly wished she saw more of Jamie, though she had enough sense to guess that this wasn't likely to happen soon. Malcolm hadn't touched upon the specifics, but she knew enough of their falling out to say that the blame could rest mostly on the stress of the surprise election two years back. Not to mention the conflicting approaches both men took to their work.

Personally – and she was still trying to think of a way to explain this to Malcolm – Clara sided with Jamie on the whole thing. He only cared at a bare minimum level necessary to get the job done, and get it done thoroughly, without letting the job set its claws in too deep. His seemingly ruthless sense of self-preservation felt far more practical in a world determined not to let a damn thing about a person go unscathed. And while Clara wouldn't exactly call Malcolm's methods reckless, she thought his inexhaustible efforts to know and control more than he ought was a recipe for self-made disaster, not as impressive as it was worrying.

 _The only impressive part is that he's been able to manage it for this long_ , she thought, eyeing him askance.

A buildup of far too many people struggling with far too many items – umbrellas, bags, purses, coats – forced Clara and Malcolm to break their once steady stride. They slowed to a crawl and then a stop. Using the time gather her bearings, Clara watched as her breath swirled in the air, twisting into white clouds that disappeared on another gust of the frozen winter wind.

"Right, so like I said: _Jamie_ I can understand," she continued, returning to the original point of the conversation as they began to walk again. "But what about the others, Ollie and – who else was it?"

"Robyn. She's just an up-jumped temp, you know? First came in to cover for Terri – that's another one you won't get to meet. She's also too much of a hazard." Malcolm said all this very quickly, hissing quietly so that every word filtered down to Clara alone. "Terri came back, but Robyn stayed on. Only the two of them, right, they're like half a fucking brain stem stitched up together. You can rely on them to occasionally rub together a fucking braincell so they can stimulate active thought, but it's not exactly dependable service. You'd get much better use if you stuck a dildo onto an oscillating fan and let that run the phones and desk."

Malcolm paused, his mind working fast either to relay information or to dig up what little he had about Robyn. _Probably to help figure out what to get her,_ Clara guessed. This panicked sort of thoughtfulness mixed in with his trademark vulgarity made her smile, oddly touched. "Anything else you want to share?" she pressed.

Malcolm's lips tightened as he continued to think. "There was also some talk about Glenn fancying her," he supplied, frowning.

"Oh, Glenn," Clara chuckled, shaking her head. "That's another one I haven't seen in a while. Please tell me he's not thinking of becoming a priest as well."

"No, but the next time I catch him trying to use Twitter, I've promised to work the fear of god so far into him that each time he shits a psalm comes out."

"I'm really glad you decided to share that with me, Malcolm. It's such a delightful image."

Malcolm's smile threw Clara briefly off the path of her disgust – but only briefly. "So – any ideas?" he asked, stroking her hand with his thumb and guiding into the pocket of his woolen trench coat.

“Well if you wanted to play Cupid, then you picked the wrong holiday.”

The look that passed over Malcolm's face was a mix between a scowl and a horrified twitch. Clara smiled and gave his arm a pat.

"Well, look – describe Robyn to me. What's she like? As a person, not a worker. I think I know your feelings on that."

"I don't know," Malcolm said at once, peering over his shoulder at the Yumchaa they passed with a sudden stab of longing. He turned back to face front, scowling and muttering about hipsters. "Nervous? Quiet? You can't look at her for too long without her dripping like she's about to fucking weep."

"Is that when everyone looks at her, or just you?"

The look on Malcolm's face was all the answer she needed.

"We should get her something nice. A sort of peace offering, both in the sense that you mean her no harm and that you want her to calm down." As Clara finished this sentence, Malcolm turned around to head back up the way they had come.

She frowned. "Malcolm, I thought –?"

"We're still going to shop," he insisted, squeezing her hand. "I'm just tasting one of those big fuck off brownies, yeah? We can share it. It's about the size of your stringy little forearm anyway."

 _Chocolate. Right._ Clara should have known. "Go on, then," she sighed, knowing that he couldn't resist this den of hipsters that, despite the customers it attracted, was really quite a lovely place. They very few times they had normal couple dates, both before and during their marriage, had taken place in several Yumchaas. Clara had grown fond of it despite herself. "But get me some tea!"

Clara waited outside while Malcolm went in to get his brownie fix, stomping her feet against the cold pavement to keep warm. It was always colder without him around, but the chill had forced itself into her boots, down past her socks and onto her toes with a brutal vengeance.

Malcolm was back a few minutes later, muttering loudly about long lines and crowds. He handed Clara her tea and then broke off an edge of the brownie with his long thin fingers. She watched him push it onto his tongue, wondering how one man could make something as basic as eating seem terribly indecent.

"What did we decide for Robyn?" Malcolm asked once the tea and the snack were polished off and well-enjoyed.

Clara shrugged, putting her hand back into Malcolm's pocket and leaning in close to his side. "I dunno. Let's throw some nice little care package together. Some candles, maybe those little bath soaps--I don't care if you hate them, they're not for you anyway – and... a book?"

"This is starting to feel like more of a fucking hassle than it ought to be," Malcolm grumbled, chewing on one side of his mouth and forcing the words out on the other.

"That's what happens when you decide to do something nice for people," Clara sighed, putting on an air of world-weariness that exceeded yours and Malcolm's ages combined. "You get nothing but a ball ache for the trouble – but there _is_ a false sense of superiority to look forward to. Might want to focus on that," she added before he could interject.

Malcolm's eyebrows hitched up high on his forehead. He almost turned his body at the waist to face what he clearly assumed would be the sourest of all of Clara's expressions. She was quite pleased to thwart this assumption and greeted him with a cheerful smirk.

"Shut up," she said.

"I haven't said anything," he protested.

"I know but still – shut up. I wasn't serious," she said, still grinning. It was starting to hurt.

"Could've fooled me."

Clara took this in, saying nothing. Malcolm knew her far better than to think she was the secret curmudgeon in the relationship. Regardless of the anxious pits of misery she could fall into, or the lapses of confidence that could jar her as suddenly as the earth tearing itself into one jagged, gaping chasm beneath her feet, she really wasn't all that negative of a person. She didn't like to consider herself cynical, just... a little vexed. Worry-prone. But beneath that she really did hope for the best.

Or she wanted to, anyway. And Malcolm knew Clara better than to think otherwise, to her inexhaustible relief.

Right?

 _Not now, okay?_ Clara pleaded silently. _Not now, not today, not when we're finally spending time together like – like normal couples do._ "It's nice of you to do this. For them, I mean," she said, keeping her voice low. "It's thoughtful – unexpected. They won't know what hit them."

He snorted. "It's not a fucking bombing raid, is it? It's fucking _Christmas._ "

Clara joined in with his laugh, glad to see him smiling. There was something endearing about Malcolm's quest to keep even the most frustrating of his work associates on the fringe of his good graces. She knew Malcolm wasn't doing it solely out of the kindness of his heart, that there was much more for him to gain from keeping these people in a state of suspended disbelief – but the kindness was still there. And she appreciated it.

 

* * *

 

Once Jamie and Robyn's gifts were squared away, and they had both griped about having to be with the public on what should have been an otherwise lovely day, the real and true trial reared its head. It all came down to the painstakingly momentous task of choosing between visiting the Poundshop for Ollie's gift, or just grabbing the least used bottle from the liquor cabinet at home.

"You can't do that," Clara explained carefully, shouting to make herself heard over a passing cluster of teenage boys in Santa caps. They were swiveling their heads round to peer at Clara. She tried not to think of them – most boys were just mouths with legs at that age, anyway. All noise and hunger demanding the supply for more than one appetite. "You gave him a bottle last time he did something useful, remember? He might get suspicious."

The boys started calling out in an ear-splitting, raucous song. Naturally they had improvised it to address particular features of Clara's face and body they felt deserving of commentary. She would have been offended if it weren't so hopelessly stupid – and if she weren't also currently distracted by the seething mass of rage that was her husband. With every line they barked out, Malcolm looked more and more ready to kill with his bare hands.

There was only one thing to do. Clara darted up on her toes and pressed a quick, pacifying kiss to Malcolm's cheek, letting her lips linger for as long as she could hold her balance. "Steady boy," she said, her voice shifting down into a soft whisper.

Both the kiss and her words' effects were twofold: the boys fell into stunned silence as they slumped off, and Malcolm's face broke free from his fury, showing instead a crooked, gentle smile. Clara were more proud of this last part than she cared about the first.

They both lapsed into a thoughtful silence as they began to stroll somewhat aimlessly around the streets. Malcolm plodded along next to her, occupied with his own thoughts. Clara smiled as he wove his arm around her waist, drawing her in closer as if to huddle against both the cold and the crowds.

"D'you still have that fucking eyesore of a scarf at home?" he asked, his eyes bright with a look she knew well. He was plotting something.

"The red one that's horribly itchy and puts me into a scratching fit?" she asked. "Yeah, it's in the back of the closet. Why?"

"He and the scarf are like near kin, right? They have the same level of reliable cognitive functioning, and they both have the unintended effect of making you want to claw your fucking eyes out. See? Perfect."

"Excellent choice. Really well done, Malcolm," she said, laying the praise on just a little too thick. "And do you know what, that makes things far easier for us, doesn't it? We can just – turn around," Clara held on tighter to Malcolm's arm and swung him back the way they'd come, " – and very quickly remove ourselves from... What did you call it? The Yuletide snake pit?"

"It's been a little over an hour since we left. We're not headed back now."

"That's funny - could have sworn we were walking in that general direction."

"Do you have some deeply buried aversion to being seen in public with me?" he asked, truly curious.

"Considering how rarely we actually go out in public together, I'm going to have to say no. I can't be averse to something I'm hardly used to."

Malcolm fell silent, his hand tightening on her waist in a hold both possessive and pleading. He seemed to drift away even as he pushed his fingers down hard enough for Clara to feel the press of his bones. It was a strange irreconcilable gesture, a literal push and pull that moved her closer and as he drew himself back at the same time.

 _But that's us, isn't it?_ Clara thought, chewing on her lip as she gazed up at Malcolm. _Tugging back and forth, back and forth. Together but hidden in plain open sight. That's us. That's always us._ When would it stop – or would they just get tired of it before that could happen?

"I know how you feel," Malcolm murmured, taking her by surprise. Clara continued walking by some compulsion, certainly not through her own willpower. Every bit of her attention was focused on Malcolm's voice as he continued speaking. "About the hiding, the lying – going out in public only when there's too much of a rush for anyone to fucking care. Trust me, I know how it feels. I feel it too. But you know why I do this?"

"It's for us," she said at once. Clara cleared her throat, hoping to sound less wooden and hollow the next time. "It's for you and me," she tried again. "So there can actually _be_ a you and me. We're together only when we're alone, but to everyone else... we have to lie."

"Except to the CCTV cameras," he joked. But Clara's heart felt too much like a sudden, suffocating cloud to allow herself to laugh.

She didn't talk again until they were closer to home. _Just a few more minutes and we'll be back,_ she thought, brutally aware of both how close and yet how distant Malcolm felt at her side. Her hand was still in his coat pocket and he was still holding onto her waist, but both positions felt mechanical, processed and automatic.

Their house was almost within sight, but all its comforts felt lost as they continued down the walk. Home was their sanctuary - both hers and Malcolm's, together. Clara had known this from the first day she set foot inside the door with the intent to live there. Home was where they could be each other's true haven, safe and bared and living without the burden of the world glaring in on them at all times. Home was the heart of everything, the heart of all their days together to this point – and hopefully all the days to come. The last thing Clara wanted was to bring this awkward atmosphere back home. The house and the world she and Malcolm had crafted under that roof, in those rooms, between those walls, deserved to be as unburdened and honest as she could both possibly stand it to be.

Clara found it hard to keep silent, defying even her would-be words of encouragement. She was a jangle of bones and nerves and misspoken words, never saying the ones she wanted but rather the ones she wanted to let lie dead.

She knew what she had to do.

The wind picked up again and the grey sky overhead was growing darker, moodier, matching the shadows of Clara's thoughts. "Hey, Malcolm?" she asked, her voice breaking into the silence and the encroaching shadows. The noise of the crowds had long since died out along with the bells, the carols, and the overall festive atmosphere. Now the only sound was the passing hush of cars forcing themselves through the piles of snow.

"What is it?" he said, matching her steady tone.

"What I said earlier... I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to sound like that."

"And how exactly was it supposed to sound?"

"Funnier. Less prickly and offensive."

"I wasn't offended," he said. "As for pricked, well. You already made yourself an exception to my " _no weird fucking"_ rule when you first brought the cuffs and rope in the bedroom. Knew it was only a matter of time before we worked our way up to _verbal_ pegging and then – "

"Malcolm, _please_. Shut up," she laughed, shaking her head.

"See, there you go again," he continued, moving his hand off her waist to stroke her shoulder.

Malcolm's touch and even his embarrassing, if not astute, sense of humor meant more than Clara could say in that moment. Sometimes it even meant more than she could categorize into clear cut emotions, though relief was a certainly one of the more prominent feelings. At he wasn't pulling away now. Strange though it seemed, considering how madly head over heels they both were for each other, Clara worried that she would wake up to the day when the lying and the hiding became more than just a necessity of Malcolm's but a _need_ , one that he would choose over her.

It was so easy to imagine a wedge driving down between her heart and his, a separation for which only she and her rambling, bitter mouth could take full credit and blame. The same way a tongue always seems to find the cut on the inside of your mouth, or the way your mind worries over a troubling, anxious thought, filling your heart with a violent buzzing that turns your chest into a hornet's nest, Clara created these worst-case scenarios as if they were labors of true love. A worried mind always knew how best to wound itself. It was the curing that was the hardest part. All Clara could do was talk from the heart and hope that would be enough.

"I don't mind that we don't go out all the time. You know that, right?" she said, not giving him room to answer. "Because when we do manage it's like I'm stealing time from someone else's life. It's almost like I'm cheating. Like I don't deserve it."

"I know," Malcolm said. "I know how that feels – I do."

"And I know why we stay shut up inside most of the time," she continued. "Just like I know why you _think_ it's better that way." Clara gently stressed the one word that mattered most in that sentence.

Malcolm waited, saying nothing.

Clara used his silence as strength, knowing he was being attentive, not dismissive. "I want you to know that if anyone finds out about us, I could very easily handle what happens next. I'd put up with all of it for as long as I had to." She took a breath and closed her eyes. It was easier this way, always easier to rip herself apart as long as she didn't have to look, didn't have to _see_. "Because what we have together is more important to me than what anyone else has to say about it."

And there it was, her heart laid bare and bleeding, waiting for him to take.

Malcolm's silence continued, but her courage didn't. Clara turned to look up at him with a nervous twist of her head, holding her breath. His expression was unreadable, as if he didn't know how to line up what was in his head with what lay on his tongue.

He didn't say anything until they were back home. The bags with the gifts had been left in the front room, ready to wrap and send off the next morning. Clara was just about to dash up the stairs and argue with herself in the shower when Malcolm emerged from the living room, stopping her at the bottom stair.

"Look – I think it's better that we play it safe and lie low not because I have doubts about what you can put up with, or whether or not I think you can tolerate the deluge of shit they'd try to drown you in. Alright?" He took a breath, running his hand over his mouth. "It's because I know exactly what they'd do when... _if_ word of us gets out. I don't want you to have to live through that. Not you. Anyone else – fucking _anyone else,_ and it wouldn't even matter at all _._ I'd fucking serve them up on a platter, right? But not you. Not us."

Malcolm steadied his hand on the bannister, his lips tightening in a bitter twist before they became a smile. "And hey, look. If they have to fucking eat one of us alive it may as well be me, yeah?"

Clara looked him over carefully. There was a look in his eyes that she knew well, a fire similar to the anger that had taken over him when they passed the cat-calling boys. It was a pure and bold anger – but there was something else there, too. Something new burned in that hidden fire.

Stunned into silence, Clara tried to place the cause of the blaze inside his eyes. She wondered too how badly it hurt him, and how best to get rid of it. It wasn't until Malcolm's eyes moved over her face, taking in every bit from the forehead lined with worry to the shocked, slightly parted mouth did she realize the source.

It was her. She was the fire that burned and ached inside his heart.

Clara glanced at Malcolm's hand. It was like a pale claw on the banister, the bones and veins straining pitifully against the skin. She gently brushed her fingers across the back of his.

"I won't let them do that to you," she said with all the conviction she had, all the will and force and power of her breath. Just as there was a fire alive inside of Malcolm, one that had caught, struck, and flared up from clawing at the flint of her heart, there was a similar flame alive inside her.

Clara searched his face just as his eyes had moved over hers, intently focused and full of love. "Even when you have to be in the same room and waste time and breath and words on all those hacks, you're not really there. Not all of you, not the parts that matter. And if you're not all there, then they can't hurt you. They can't even touch you. Not even if they're chasing you down the street screaming bloody murder."

 _Keep going. Keep telling him._ Clara closed her hand over Malcolm's, holding him tight. _Finish it._ "There's always going to be one shred of you they can't ruin, and that part of you is all mine, Malcolm Tucker. I'll never let it go, not for anything. I promise."

She left Malcolm with this thought, continuing up the stairs and to the comforts of the shower. It wasn't long before Malcolm joined her, pulling her into his arms and pressing her so hard against him that Clara was sure she was going to slip, trip, and fall – but of course she didn’t. Malcolm held onto her, lifting her up so that the tips of her toes were all that kept her rooted to the suds-soaked ground. Of course Malcolm kept her safe, lending Clara his strength even as her love leached it out of him, leaving him weak and bared - but alive.

And as they moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, collapsing on the floor and clawing at each other with hands and nails and teeth, Clara felt loved by him, loved and safe, loved and valued – even if his kisses hurt enough to leave a bruise, even if his nails were scratching down her back and sides hard enough to demand her blood. She gave back as good as she got and more and beyond that, until his groans became growls, became gasps, became pleas.

This was the sort of love they had: it was a love like hunger, a love like an ache, a love that was both ruin and sanctuary. Long may it reign.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the person complaining about Malcolm and Clara not being honest with each other/why would they bother getting married if they'd act that way, I hope you enjoy this chapter that addresses that exact, intentional problem.

"A marriage is a private thing. It has its own wild laws, and secret histories, and savage acts, and what passes between married people is incomprehensible to outsiders. ... What we carry between us is hard-won, and we made it just as we wished it to be, just the color, just the shape." -- _Deathless_ , by Catherynne M. Valente

 

* * *

 

 

The night started with Malcolm's hands on Clara's hips and his lips at her throat, his kisses feather-light. They contrasted with his grip which was tight enough that it pulled up the hem of her dress, insistent and hungry.

Unfortunately for them both, Clara was busy putting the finishing touches on her outfit for the evening's entertainment. Nothing too glamorous. Just one more work-related elbow-rubbing event to which Malcolm couldn't come (though the invitation cheerfully included a plus one) and to which Clara dreaded going at all, never mind alone. The most she could do to delay the inevitable was linger as long as reasonably possible in their bedroom, slowly getting ready as she resigned herself to the chore. 

_Malcolm’s _here - could put him to some last, quick minute use.__

It was this charming thought that made Clara seek out Malcolm's help with her outfit of choice, batting her eyes and flashing a coquettish smile. She didn't say please. She didn't think she had to, nor did she really want to phrase it as such.

And so with a sigh and a small shake of his head, Malcolm zipped up her dress just as she asked. It was quite nice of him to do - but naturally he did so with a mouth full of complaints. Limp ones, nothing to take seriously, but the heat behind his words froze Clara's grin.

"If you have time to complain, you have time to be useful," Clara said to him, pushing the backs onto her earrings and giving them a decisive twist.

"Sorry, was I not just dressing you like a fucking manservant?" he asked, hunched over her shoulder with his lips moving across her neck in the way she usually loved.

 _He wants me to turn 'round, to give in_. _He wants me to stay._ Clara would like nothing more than to skive off tonight's drink-and-dinner event, something put together for a teacher she never got on with, for the sake of their well-deserved retirement. But her absence would draw far more attention than her presence. Best to grin and bear it.

"Pulling up one zipper hardly makes you a _servant_ , Malcolm," Clara said. "You'd have to be on your knees a lot more than you usually are for that." And before he could fire back with some retort – Clara saw his expression in the mirror and she _knew_ he was just waiting for her to pause long enough to get a chance to say it – she reached down to the dresser on her left, making a grab for her perfume.

"Move," she added, holding up the bottle. "Unless you want a face full of _Killer Queen_ , move."

And Malcolm did move – he moved right to the other side of her neck where his lips and teeth left their warm, nipping marks, sending shivers down her back and making her tremble in his hands. He held on tighter in response, and Clara could hear the fabric of her dress shift against the tops of her nylons. She was a garter woman on principle, but right now she was starting to regret this tried and true fashion decision. Full stockings would be much better, as they would keep her thighs from feeling as if there were soft, skimming fingers dancing across their softer curves and surfaces. Or was that an actual thing?

Clara shivered again and looked down. Malcolm had one hand on her hip, yes, and the other was sliding under her dress. _She_ slapped his hands, even the harmless hip-holding one. "I don't have time for this," Clara said, gritting her teeth against the rise of pleasure roiling inside her.

Malcolm's words were muffled against her neck. "Fifteen minutes."

Clara shook her head and held up the perfume bottle, giving his forehead a sharp, short whack with the cap. "No."

His breath tickled the back of her neck as he moved once again to the other side, the first he was kissing. He breathed in her perfume – a rich, sweet smell, one he loves and one he resupplied her with even before the bottle ran out. "Ten," he said.

She put the perfume bottle down again and placed her hands over both of his, guiding them off her thigh (she could hear her heart break a crack at this), and then off her hip (his touch was so _warm_ , she nearly burned with the chill left behind). Holding him still, Clara half turned to glare at Malcolm sharply over her shoulder, her head tilted back and eyes lifted to peer up at him beneath the lashes she had carefully plied with grey mascara.

"Malcolm," she said, her voice as calm as she could make it be. "We are absolutely not having sex before I head out."

"That a promise?" he fired back. There was a shadow in his eyes and a depth in his voice that let Clara know he was just as unhappy as she was. And like her, he would be absolutely thrilled if she changed her mind, shoved him down on the bed, and ignore the world they wanted very little part of when there was so much more to enjoy at home.

"It's a fact," Clara told him, nodding once and pushing his hands together into a little clap. "If I hang around here and get you off it'll just make me late. And I don't want to call any attention to myself." She said it all in a rush, knowing the best way to pretend she was focused was to talk as fast as possible. Something about the speed made people seem to think she had far more cold confidence than she felt.

"Is that the only complaint you've got?" he asked. It was banter now, light and steady, like they were thwacking a birdie back and forth. The game was a mechanical process, effortless, thoughtless, and well-studied.

"Well, there's also the one about how long it took me to get dressed tonight - not to mention how I don't want to risk a run in my stockings," Clara added, giving him a pointed stare as she reached for the dark blue bolero jacket waiting on the back of the desk chair. The desk itself was rarely used for its true design purpose; it was more of a resting place for coats, ties, shirts, and a landing point for whatever parts of their wardrobe they stripped off in their haste to get at each other.

"Those are two complaints," he said, showing his teeth in a smile. Malcolm made no move to pull his hands from the position Clara pushed them in, keeping himself fully contained within her grasp. She realized too late that she _was_ still holding on to him, her touch lingering, her fingers wrapped tenderly around the bones at the ends of his thumbs, stroking down to his wrists.

"It's one complaint in two parts," she said. "And both are related to how I am not, under any circumstances, going to risk this outfit's integrity for your shagging needs."

"We're upset about _integrity_ now?"

Clara held up a hand, extended one finger, and jabbed it sharply into Malcolm's chest. "Semantics," she said. "What do we say about semantics in this house?"

He narrowed his eyes into a sharp glare. The smile disappeared, but Clara could still sense its presence in his overall mood. Light, charming, the spark still flaring, but not in danger of becoming an actual flame. "You tell me, sweetheart," he said.

Without hesitating, Clara lifted up her hand and gave his cheek a hard pat. Darting up her toes – her heels weren't on yet; they were waiting by the front door – she pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips, not wanting to smudge her lipstick.

"That it's _wank_ ," Clara said, imitating his accent as well as the rough, bitter speech he could adopt on the phone whenever he's brought work home. Clara was still trying to figure out how to tell him how much she liked the way he said such awful, blush-worthy things. It wasn't just the accent, but the tone and the force and the command. She liked listening to it almost as much as she liked the idea of commanding him to say it.

Malcolm’s arms slid around Clara as he pulled her in for a quick hug, a longer kiss, and an even deeper stare. This was just one more thing for her to love at any other time, and loathe now. He knew the power his eyes had on her, not to mention that of his hands, and his lips, and his laugh, and his smile, and every possible feature that made him well, _him_ – and what's more, he knew how Clara regarded that pull as vastly far from fair. His stares were lures that kept Clara enthralled.

And what did she do for him? What did she do to keep _him_ ensnared? It wasn't always easy for her to tell, though she trusted there was something to knot him to her, as if they had red cords and thick, iron chains linking one heart to the next. Malcolm had answered this question once a long time ago, when they first got together. _"Well you're fucking here, aren't you? You stayed, you mad and daft and sweet and clever little heart. And that's fuckin' plenty."_

"Say that again," Malcolm said, distracting Clara from her thoughts.

"Why?" she asked.

He laughed, or almost seemed to. But when he spoke next his voice sounded as close to a plea as Clara had ever heard him be. "Make us happy, love."

She'd like to be as happy as he wanted to be, but one kiss between them could lead to more, and before she knew it she would then have him right where they both wanted to be, and then the whole night would be shot to hell.

Clara ducked aside at the last second, avoiding his kiss with a Herculean effort of will. "I can make you happy when I get back, yeah? Your ego can delay being stroked for a few hours, I think."

Malcolm followed her to the front door and helped as she stepped into her heels, wedging her toes to the ends. She took one final check in the mirror by the door.

"I'll be back after dinner, so make herself something nice," she said to her husband's reflection.

"D'you want me to save you a plate?"

Clara shook her head. "No, I'll eat when I'm there."

Malcolm could tell by the way Clara hid a sigh and wrapped every word in a weight that this fact was far from pleasing. Both of them understood, each in their own ways, the various frustrations they both must endure for the sake a paycheck. And this was by far one of the more amusing ones. Malcolm's grievances might be enough to fill several encyclopedia tomes, whereas Clara's would be a modestly selling trilogy of novels. No less impressive or important, just not as expansive.

 _Yet_. If Clara had to keep going to these wretched after-hour events, she had no doubt that she would rival her husband's list of career agonies soon.

 _At least there's an open bar tonight,_ Clara thought. _And a meal. And a two-hour time limit before I can fuck off back home_. The time limit was her own rule, set in place only for diplomacy's sake. Two hours was more than enough time to make small talk, listen to little speeches made, and give a toast or two to the man – woman – someone – of the night.

"Wish me luck," Clara said, reaching for the door, her smile fixed in place.

"Good luck not killing anyone," Malcolm said, imitating her light tone and higher pitch, taking on her accent as well. "Wouldn't want to get any stains on that dress."

Clara turned to shoot him a warning look, her anger not following through with the glare. He was smiling too sweetly for that to last. "I'll call you if I need a body hidden," she said.

"Oh good," Malcolm mused, his eyebrows darting up to wrinkle his forehead and push back the front line of his hair. He'd gone spectacularly grey in the past few months, responding to this change only by cutting his hair a bit too short. Clara mourned the loss of the perfectly tuggable fluff when she noticed how his hair was barely affected even after he reached back to scratch his head.

"I'll get an acid bath ready,” he continued. “And then a regular bath. With those little fucking scented bubbles you're always on about."

Her eyes flashed as she chuckled. "You know, you really are quite good at being a manservant," Clara said, pretending to consider the idea.

Malcolm's smile slipped just enough to turn into a smirk. "You do realize that these past few minutes could have been spent in pearl-clutching balls deep debauchery, yes?" he asked.

"Not wearing my pearls," Clara reminded him. "Didn't want to distract from the neckline."

As expected, Malcolm's eyes dropped to that part of the dress, taking in how it sank into a deep vee. He brought it on himself.

If Malcolm complained about it, he did so in silence. Seething, burning, hungry silence. The kind that made her skin tingle when she remembered every touch and kiss, not to mention the recent warmth of his fingers on her thigh. Clara knew that silence. She preferred it to be broken. But not now.

_Later tonight. It'll give me something to look forward to._

Clara spared enough time to give Malcolm a wink before she walked out of the house, down the steps, and to the waiting cab.

 

* * *

 

Clara came back home a little over two hours later, her diplomacy limit reached and even politely exceeded. She stepped out of her heels and kicked them gently aside, her feet aching with slow, steady throbs. The lights of the streetlamps from outside bled in through the glass, creating a golden orange glow in an imitation of flame but without the heat or the flicker. She stared at this little ring of light, letting her thoughts drift and her mood shift.

All in all, she performed well tonight. She had lied longer than she thought she had to, but she did it with finesse. _I laughed. I talked. I listened._ _I avoided all sorts of beady little stares and probing questions._ She even got along with the new headmaster – if smiling kindly while he rattled a series of off-colour jokes could even count as _getting along_.

Clara wished she could have thought of a clever way of telling him to fuck off, but anger made her mind sluggish, especially since she was working so hard to hide that she wasn't exactly thrilled to be there in the first place. By the time she thought of something witty and acidic to say, the moment had passed, the chance lost. And she hated herself for it.

Clara wouldn't consider herself willfully confrontational, but she didn't see what was so terrible about calling out a person's much loathed and absolutely horrendous moral myopia when it was laid out in front of her. Find a fault and stomp it out - a simple formula, really.

 _So why didn't I do it?_ Instead she had smiled weakly and hidden her glares to the best of her side-eyeing ability. It wouldn't have been a problem at all if Malcolm were there. Clara would have taken his presence to heart and let herself be as ruthless as possible, his presence offering both inspiration and courage. She often wished Malcolm could be at these damned things, little though he'd like them and as much as she loathed the idea of subjecting him to her bubbly, cheerful sweetheart persona. The nice girl, the friendly, likeable girl.

She wished she had his luxury of being unliked and still respected. She could only bite her tongue and wait for the blood to fill her mouth. Malcolm would know how to talk to these people. Years of experience had forced him to adapt to their inadequacies. And this experience had taught him how to counter, contort, and shame even the smallest trace that threw off his own control.

Control. Influence. A menacing presence. Whatever it was, Malcolm had it, and people had to listen to it – possibly because they were afraid of him and possibly because they knew, deep down, that what he was saying was right. Clara, by contrast, didn't want to _have_ to say anything to these people. Not because she didn't think it was worth the energy, but because anyone stupid enough to say an awful thing would be too stupid to benefit from any attempt to correct them. Their punishment was already existing. They were stuck as themselves, incapable of improvement, unable to know that they should even try.

 _And I have to work for them. Smile for them. Lie to them._ If she were any more sensitive, it would make her downright sick.

Clara turned from the window, taking a brief detour to shut off the light over the stove before she forced herself upstairs to the bedroom. It wasn't that late, but she was tired and had to get an early start in the morning. She wanted to sleep, to rest, to relax – and above all, she wanted her husband. Not in that order.

Malcolm was working at the desk when Clara came in, sparing her a quick look as he peered over the tops of his glasses. The desk lamp shone on his face, throwing the outline of his profile in a stark, deep shadow, accentuating the nose, the chin, arch and slope and fall of his eyebrows.

After a pause, he leaned around to peer behind Clara in the doorway, looking down at the floor. "No trail of dead?" he asked, _tsk_ ing quietly with a shake of his head. "I expected at least a spinal column as a memento."

"I left it downstairs in the front room," Clara said, taking off her earrings and shaking them in her hand, crossing the room to the mirror and the dresser. "Thought it'd go nice with that bone coat rack you're always promising to make."

"Well there's your Christmas present spoiled," Malcolm said under his breath, glancing between one miserably thick stack of papers to the other.

Clara watched him in the mirror, pulling down her hair and combing out the strands with her fingers. She shed the bolero jacket and picked at the lint that had gathered along the shoulders, before she headed over to the closet to hang it back up. "There's always my birthday," she said as she passed him.

Malcolm shook his head again. "I had something else in mind for that.”

"Oh, what's that?" she asked, shutting the closet door and heading into the bathroom to wash her face. Malcolm's voice followed Clara into the other room, making her snort with laughter as she ran the tap.

"I was thinking about having Ollie for dinner."

Clara frowned at her reflection. " _For_ dinner or _as_ dinner?"

"As," he said, chuckling at her correction.

"How _is_ Ollie, anyway?" Clara asked, lathering her face as she hunched over the sink. "Haven't heard much about him these days. Should I be worried?"

"Only if it matters to you what state of decomposition he's in."

Clara waited to follow up on that until her face was clear of both make up and soap. She dabbed it dry with a hand towel next to the sink, the plush pale pink cotton warm in her hands. "Malcolm, be serious."

"He's very alive and unfortunately very fucking well," Malcolm said. She could hear the clip in his voice, as well as the sour, somber edge in his tone. "And he knows better than to run his mouth about you, if that makes you happy."

Clara made sure to run her hand over Malcolm's hair as she passed his desk, hoping her touch would be enough to stop his temper before it reached a feverish boil. Her other hand reached back to fumble for her zipper. "It does actually, yes," she said. "I don’t want to have to prepare myself for conjugal visits. I’ve got a nice home life all planned out for us, and I intend to live every second of it.”

“Oh, good. Domestic tedium.” Malcolm turned in his seat to watch Clara struggle. It was certainly not a show or a farce of any kind – she really was having quite a bit of trouble at the moment, and Malcolm staring at her certainly didn't help.

"Here, let me at it," he said at last, crooking two of his fingers to wave her over.

"And why would you want to do that?" Clara asked.

"Well tonight I'm the fucking manservant, remember?" he added when she didn't move. "So come here and help make our job a little easier."

Clara smiled and lowered her hand. "You should come to me instead," she said.

The look Malcolm gave her before he stood made her skin tingle, starting from the bottom of her spine up and out across her back. Clara could feel Malcolm before he touched her, so great was her own need and so apparent was his still, even hours later. His look reminded her of their "meeting" in the lift some time ago, not to mention all those trysts in his office cupboard.

Malcolm put one hand on the back of her shoulder, steadying himself there as two fingers reached out to unzip her dress. His silence was more suggestive than any muttered word could have been, and Clara tried very hard not to shiver again.

"So. Back to where we started?" she asked, holding back an exhausted laugh.

Instead of answering, Malcolm chose to murmur indistinctly. His wordless hum lapsed off into such a peculiar, heavy silence that Clara wasn't quite sure what to make of it. How can he crave her and yet seem, at the same time, so irrevocably sad?

Slipping his fingers inside the top part of the back of her dress to gently nudge it over her shoulders, Malcolm waited for Clara to pull her arms out of the sleeves and push the rest of it down to her hips, which she did with indecent haste but without an ounce of embarrassment. Clara was happy to be free of that dress and all the suffocating trappings it suggested. She wondered vaguely if this was how Malcolm felt once he was home and free from work for a few short, blissful hours.

 _It explains all the fleece and loose grey trousers_ , Clara thought, biting her lip to hide her smile.

"What's that look for?"

"What look?"

"That," he said, pointing at the mirror then down at her face as Clara turned to regard him, stepping out of her dress and kicking it up with her foot to catch hold of in her hand. "That scheming little smirk. What's that all about?"

"I don't have a _look_ , Malcolm," Clara insisted, unable to resist letting out a laugh. It was all so silly, this accusation of his – especially considering how he had just finished looking her over as if every shift of his gaze could tear off a layer of clothing.

Straightening her dress and folding it over her arm, Clara pulled off more bits of stray hair and fuzz and let them fall slowly down to the carpet. She tilted her head back to catch Malcolm's eyes, unable to keep a straight face any longer. "Have you been working ever since I left?" she asked.

"I've got folders taller than you in the spare room that I'm meant to read through before a breakfast meeting tomorrow," he said, raising his voice at the end as Clara moved from directly in front of him to the bathroom again, dropping her dress in the hamper there. It was almost full, sporting a collection of pants and stray socks and blouses with loose buttons. Malcolm's clothes were mashed in angry wads down near the bottom, while Clara's were usually lucky to make it into the basket at all.

"Anything interesting?" she called out, pausing to unfasten her nylons and quickly drop off her garters in the hamper as well.

"Is that a joke?"

"It was meant to be,” she sighed. “I'm tired. Tonight took a bit more out of me than I thought it would."

"And yet you wear the dry, weathered look very well," Malcolm said.

Clara _knew_ she was tired because it was far too easy for him to get her to laugh. _That's twice now, twice in only a few minutes' time._ "Same to you, dear," she said, smiling sweetly as she turned to face him again.

A tense moment passed as they stood looking at each other, him fully dressed and Clara just one little silken slip away from bared flesh. The tension boiled, peaked, then mounted into a heat that felt like hands on her skin, making Clara fold her arms over her chest and take a deep breath. Malcolm, if he noticed any change in the atmosphere at all, remained composed and quietly curious, still watching her closely.

"You should take a break," Clara said, surprised to see that Malcolm moved closer to the bed, his expression attempting all signs of innocence. "Just for a few minutes. You've earned it."

"Do I have your permission to relax?" he asked, his voice low, clearly amused. He was smiling in the way that made her heart a shuddering, mad thing beating back against the bars of its own cage.

Taking another breath, Clara stepped forward to wrap her arms around Malcolm's reed thin waist, pulling herself closer. His eyebrows darted up, wrinkling his forehead as she kissed him, pulling his old trick of letting her mouth linger. Clara knew it would make him shiver.

He didn’t move.

At first Clara thought the trick hadn't worked, that he was unmoved by her transparent efforts of seduction. And then Malcolm's hands were on her, one hand winding through her hair and holding the back of her head in his long, thin fingers, while the other made the obvious grab for her left breast. Clara wanted to laugh but his kisses were firm, and the force of them bent her back until she was unsteady on her feet.

She pulled one hand off of him to grope behind her, looking for the bed. Finding it without much stumbling or embarrassment, Clara hopped up and kept one hand firmly latched onto Malcolm's shirt, dragging him along. But Malcolm chose to straighten up, pull back, and slide his fingers down so that his hands rested on her knees (after making a few brief stops for a lingering caress that pulled her slip just above her waist).

Malcolm looked down at her, his gaze dark and eyes hooded, a half smile in place for a moment that stretched on in an agonizing breach of time. It seemed to extend indefinitely as Clara caught her breath and pushed herself up on her elbows.

"Are you coming on or not?" she asked, intentionally phrasing it as such. She wanted him to move, to react, to laugh, to do _something_ besides gaze at her with a look that devoured. She was dangerously close to being driven to absolute distraction by his silence, along with the heat and weight of his gaze, not to mention his hands on her knees.

And Malcolm said nothing. It was a self-willed silence, as stubborn as it was utterly enticing because it meant he had riveted all his attention to Clara, listening, looking, _feeling_.

She shivered beneath his hands. "Malcolm, I'm not going to beg," she said, holding her chin up and narrowing her gaze.

And then he went down to one knee, then the other, sliding his hands under her thighs until he got a firm hold on the soft flesh that set ablaze beneath his touch. He pulled Clara closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth with lips that were prepped to kiss behind her knees, the inside of her thighs. No doubt he would leave a trail of little nips of teeth and love bites that Clara would only half regret in the morning.

Perhaps Clara was just a bit too eager, having imagined all this before he did a single thing besides kneel down and smile a wicked, sickle grin that didn't show his teeth but set a hook into his eyes. It made Clara turn her fingers into the very same. She grabbed what little of his hair she could hold and tried to pull it, laughing as her hold failed.

"Come _on_ ," Clara said, her voice weak. She was only seconds away from saying the word he was waiting to hear and both of them knew it. Clara set her teeth into her lip to hold it back, not trusting the word to stay locked inside without an extra bit of effort.

 _Please,_ Clara thought, putting the plea in her eyes before she shut them, feeling his breath on the inside of her thighs, the hint of his lips kissing, exploring, moving up...

And then he was gone. Her eyes flew open, already prepared to glare a merciless, well-honed death stare at him. And oh, how Clara glared, her teeth on edge and her face flushed from the roots of her hair down past her neck.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

Malcolm give her a roguish wink and a quick pat on the outer edge of her thighs. "Break's over, sweetheart," he said, taking a quick pause to lick his lips once he knew her eyes were on his face again. "Better get back to it."

"Oh, don't _you dare_." Clara watched as he gave a lazy lift and sink of his thin shoulders as he turned back to his desk. She could see the edge of his smile when he sat down. It was a different smile than before – arrogant, confident, a trickster's grin. He was playing again, or perhaps he was still playing the same wretched, yearning game from hours gone by. And as angry as this made her – and oh how it made her blood boil and her heart stutter, and she wanted to set her teeth into his neck before she buried it beneath kisses – Clara knew she wouldn't let that temper show.

_Not on his life._

Just as she wouldn't beg, Clara also wouldn't burst forth in a torrent of bitterness. Malcolm wanted her to do that. Just as he wanted her to say _please_ and moan and murmur forth all manner of indecent things, he wanted to see Clara rage at him, demand him to come back and finish so at least one of them could get off easy tonight. She knew this as surely as she knew that he was purposely keeping his eyes from her. It was almost commendable, the way he avoided looking at her, especially since she was damned certain her glare was like a nail scratching down his back in a long, painful hiss.

She'd get him back for this. If there was one thing Clara have to spare, apart from a knot of anxieties and the familiar cold weight of her old pal Dread, it was that noxiously bountiful sin known as _pride_.

With a long breath and a commendable effort, Clara edged further down to the end of the bed and tried to compose herself. She adjusted her slip, pulling the edge of it back down to cover her thighs as she counted each breath. In and out, in and out, a gentle rhythm meant to lull her back to stability.

 _A shower should work nice right now,_ Clara thought, pushing herself off the bed, making a wide arc away from Malcolm's desk. She left the door open as she forced herself out of the slip and all other undergarments beneath, not caring if he was watching her. _Let him look, the bastard._

Clara pulled aside the shower curtain and got the water running, listening for the telltale sound of his chair creaking with his weight. She put her hands to the back of her neck and stretched, shaking her hair out over her back. That's when she heard the creak.

Acting as if she didn't expect him to stare at all, Clara peeked over her shoulder and smiled, catching sight of Malcolm's face peering round the doorway.

"Do us a favor and close the door," she said in her sweetest voice yet. No doubt it knocked him for a loop. "Wouldn't want the steam to get you all hot and bothered while you're hard at work," she added.

Malcolm laughed in short, tense bursts, shaking his head. He reached out to grab the doorknob, pausing just before he slammed it shut to look Clara square in the eye and say, "I’m onto you, sweetheart."

Before the door shut, Clara made sure he saw her wink.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm moved his work downstairs by the time she got out of the shower.

 _Coward,_ she thought, laughing as she got dressed for bed. She took one look at the bed and then at the door, thinking fast. She wasn't _so_ mad that she couldn't wish him a goodnight, surely...

 _Going downstairs now will be just like walking into his hand. Stay up here. Go to bed._ Yes... that was for the best. Let the little game carry on for a bit longer. What was the harm?

Clara smiled to herself and lumbered over to the bed, happily crawling inside the warmth. She was fast asleep by the time Malcolm came up two hours later, having waited for her to come down. When it became obvious that she wouldn't, Malcolm then decided he might as well make the best of her absence by actually getting some of that work done.

Clara only vaguely remembered rolling over in her sleep to fling one arm around Malcolm's chest and nuzzle into his shoulder, her hair falling over her eyes and obscuring them from view. She felt Malcolm's thumb graze her cheek as he stroked her hair aside, pushing it back to free her face and neck. The touch stirred her only a little from her dreams.

"Malcolm?" she murmured, her words slurred with sleep.

"What is it?"

"I’m onto you, too," she said, giving his chest a light slap.

Malcolm held her hand over his heart. Clara could feel him shake with silent laughter but if he had anything else to say after that, she didn't hear it. She fell back into a black, dreamless sleep. The steady beat of her husband's heart beneath her fingers lulled her there, his wedding ring warm against her always icy touch.

 

* * *

 

Clara woke up curled up on her side, gathered up in a little tangled of bent knees and twisted blankets. Judging by the lack of warmth, Malcolm had already left the bed.

After Clara yawned and stretched, feeling her shoulders and neck pop like brittle twigs cracking, she noticed the sound of a faint, high-pitched whistle. Her arms dropped with a heavy flop as her eyes grew wide.

 _That can't be Malcolm,_ she thought, sitting up in bed and staring at the source of the sound. It was coming from the hallway outside the bedroom, drawing closer with every soft _boomp-boomp_ of hard, quick steps. It _sounded_ like Malcolm... but it certainly couldn't be him.

Malcolm arrived in the room, looking for all the world as if he was the perfect picture of innocence. He even had the nerve to draw up short at the sight of her, as if he were surprised to find her awake. Just as she was surprised to find him completely and totally –

"Naked."

"Hm? Sorry?"

"Why are you walking around the house naked?"

"Well you can't expect a man to bathe with his clothes on, can you?"

"I suppose that's... true," Clara said, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face. "But that doesn't explain why you're wandering around like... like that."

Malcolm's smile lit up his changeable blue eyes, which were right now so damnably enticing it was almost a mistake to be looking him in the face. But to look anywhere else on him would only make Clara blush, and to look away from him would be tantamount to admitting defeat. Even worse than begging.

"D'you have anything against practicality now?" he asked.

Clara rolled her eyes and climbed out of bed, shaking her head. That got her to stop staring at him and his body, his long arms and narrow hips and –

"Call it whatever you want," she muttered under her breath as she stomped over to the closet. "I know exactly what you're doing. I'm not stupid."

"Not doing anything but standing here," he said, resuming his jaunty whistle as he strolled into the bathroom and to the waiting shower.

"You shouldn't leave the water running if you aren't under it!" she shouted, grabbing at the first bits of clothing her hand touched, her face burning red.

"Are you complaining to us right now?" Malcolm called, interrupting his off-key singing.

"Yes, this is definitely a complaint."

"Sorry, can't hear a thing, you'll have to come in here," he said, pausing long enough to hear her aggravated growl or any trace of a retort.

Clara stayed silent. It was an act of defiance. She looked at the clock on the nightstand, calculating how much time she had left before they both had to be off for work. A good hour stood between that unhappy departure and this current, devious moment. "Malcolm?" Clara called out, using her sweet voice again.

He drew the curtain aside, showing more than just his face as he looked her over. Her smile stopped him short but only for a few seconds. "Is that the look you use when you complain now?" he asked.

Reaching down to pull her shirt over her head in a slow, dramatic gesture, Clara then tossed it onto the floor near the hamper and leaned forward at the waist, stepping out of her panties. She approached the shower. "Make room for me. I've got to get ready, too," she said.

Clara could see the gears at work inside Malcolm's head, knowing he had to choose between cursing or complying, and taking on all the risks that might entail. "I'm not hearing a no," she added, grinning.

"Hurry up, then," he said, spitting venom that couldn't leave any lingering harm or scar behind. “The more the merrier.”

"Budge up then," Clara said.

Malcolm grit his teeth as she slipped in next to him, purposely rubbing up against him as she took her place under the showerhead. For the first few minutes, neither made much of an effort to touch each other, the two of them determined to hold the silence.

Which isn't to say neither one of them weren't trying to make the other break it first.

Clara's choice of attack in this new seductive warfare was to lather herself up as slowly as possible, running her hands over her breasts and hips, smiling almost bashfully as she heard Malcolm force a cough.

"Did you say something?"

"No."

Clara turned around to show Malcolm her back, and to give her a bit of a break from ogling _him_. Too late did Clara realize she was too far away from the shampoo and conditioner. They were on a little shelf behind Malcolm.

She heard the cap of the shampoo pop off as he squeezed a fair portion into his hand. Surprised, Clara peered over her shoulder. Malcolm lathered his hands for a few seconds before nodding to her head, reaching out for her soaking hair. "Might want to turn around so I can keep it clear of your eyes. Wouldn't want them to get red."

"... Thanks?" Clara said, tipping back her head as Malcolm's fingers started to work in slow, strong strokes across her scalp.

It was not exactly out of character for Malcolm to do this; he washed her hair before, but it certainly didn’t make sense for him to do this _now_. Not while they're playing this _who can give in first_ game.

"Can't step a bit closer, could you? Easier for me to reach."

Clara sighed and shuffled just a step or two back to him. Her knees knocked against Malcolm's legs and she huffed out an apology, bumping up against other parts of this conniving, string-thin man. Parts that were warm and hard and full of blood, just like her face. "Hurry up," she said.

"Keep your head straight," he said, his hands sliding through her hair and lathering down to the ends.

"Malcolm?" Clara asked, her voice a flat lump.

"Careful, I'm rinsing now," Malcolm said, and she pressed her hand over her eyes and surrendered to one more sigh. Cupping one hand over her eyes, creating a little bridge to prevent the shampoo from getting in her eyes, Malcolm passed his other hand through her hair, working every trace out with an infuriatingly tender touch.

"Is this part of the game?" she continued. "You pretending to be nice so you can surprise me with something bad later?"

"I don't _pretend_ to be nice; I don't have the energy," Malcolm scoffed, pulling his hands back. "You can look now."

Clara lowered her hands as she took a quick breath, using it as the strength to stand up straight. "Can I ask you something and get an honest, thorough answer?"

"Well when you phrase it like that, I have to say yes, don’t I?”

Closer to the bottle of conditioner now, Clara poured it into her hand and work it angrily through her hair. "What sort of people would you say we are?" she asked.

Malcolm couldn't look any more surprised than if he tried. "Are we honestly having a discussion about this? Here? Now?"

"Well it'd be nice to work out before we go off for the day, yeah? No point parting ways on a bad note."

Shaking his head with a shrug and a half open mouth, utterly confused, Malcolm said, "No. No we are not having this discussion. It's introspective wank – and all before a cup of coffee!" he added, as if this were the chief offence. "Have some mercy on us, sweetheart."

Instead of answering, Clara slid around Malcolm under the water to rinse the conditioner out, holding her eyes shut tight. She could hear Malcolm pull back the curtain and step out onto the little rug outside of the shower. But he didn't leave the room. "Is this what we're going to do now?" she asked. "Have petty little arguments about ego clashes and power grabs because neither one of us wants to give in and say we actually _want_ something from each other?"

Malcolm sighed, and she watched his shadow behind the curtain shake its head again as he ran the towel over his hair and shoulders. "Right, look, it was a bit of a joke that got out of hand. Nothing to worry about."

"I know it was a joke," Clara said, washing out what remained of the conditioner and doing a few preliminary passes under the water before she moved her hands over her face. She reached out to shut the shower off. "I was laughing my tits off about it for half the night, you must have noticed."

"They were in place last I checked," Malcolm muttered.

"Shut up," Clara said, stepping out of the shower and reaching for the remaining towel on the rack. She squeezed out the lingering bits of water from her hair and into the towel, watching Malcolm wrap his own around his waist and head off into the room.

Clara followed him with her eyes, raising her voice so he could hear her. "Malcolm, all I meant was that I don't want us to start being passive aggressive to each other about absolutely nothing, and then trying to pass it all off as a running joke. I want to know we're better than that – that we won't turn into... Well. Who we are when we're not around each other."

"And who are we when we're not around each other?" Malcolm asked, his voice a low grumble that barely left his throat. "What's your take on that?"

"Incredibly talented, control-hungry liars who get better at it every day," Clara said, catching sight of her face in the mirror in the bedroom. _Calm down. Just say it. You can say it to him of all people._

Clara kicked the towel over to the hamper and stomped out into the bedroom, making for the dresser. She bit her lip again and paused.

"I want us to be better than that," she said. "I want us to able to – to let go _,_ to be honest with each other since we can hardly be that way for anyone outside the house. I'd rather we be honest with each other, even if it's about something ugly and silly."

Silence followed this remark. Buttoning up a clean white shirt, already dressed in his pants and socks, Malcolm watched Clara put together the rest of her outfit. She got as far as her bra before he cut in, taking hold of her arm in a warm, gentle grasp.

Looking Clara right in the eye in the sort of stare that makes her heart stutter, he said, "We're not liars, sweetheart. Not to each other and that's what fucking matters. And even if we were that'd be plenty fucking fine, right? We're married. We're allowed to be awful to each other now and then."

"Are we?" Clara asked, amused and somewhat touched that he could think this way.

"Christ, I should fucking hope so," he said, his eyes glinting as he leaned down to give Clara a kiss. "Or else I've cocked up the last four years of your life, haven't I?"

These words nearly broke her heart. Clara wrapped her arms around Malcolm and pulled him down for a hug hard enough to make his back crack. With his face now pulled down to her height, Clara pressed her lips into quick, hard kisses across his cheeks, his lips, his chin, and the highest point of his forehead she could reach. Malcolm endured this attack as placidly as he could before he let out a sigh, slid his hands up to cup either side of her face, and kissed her hard enough to bend her back again.

"Don't say that," Clara told him, fighting for breath between each kiss. "Don't ever say that to me again. It's not true."

"What's not?" he asked, his voice low in her ear as his kisses moved from the side her neck down to her shoulder, gliding his teeth and tongue along her skin.

"You haven't messed up anything in my life." It was easier to say these things with her eyes shut and his body against her, the two of them stumbling back towards the bed and falling down together in a jumble of touches and kisses and gasps. "I'm happy you're in my life – and I'm happy you're _mine_."

"Say that again," Malcolm said, biting her lip and unhooking her bra with one hand while the other trailed down to her bare hips, sliding in between her legs. "That part at the end, yeah?"

Clara laughed and lifted up her hips. "You're mine, Malcolm," she said, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip this time as she wrapped her legs around him. He was inside her properly before she could finish the rest of it. "You're mine and I couldn't be happier."

During the rare times in which Malcolm was on top – Clara was usually the one up there to both of their delights, and usually on Malcolm's insistence – he had a habit of holding Clara down by both of her wrists, giving her just enough room to twist and push back against his grip. It was the playful struggle they liked, not to mention the way Clara could command and control and guide him even while she lay pinned beneath him, lifting her hips up to meet every thrust and matching every moan and curse with fouler ones of her own.

"You're mine," she told Malcolm over and over again, the mantra interrupted now and then with a hiss, sometimes even breaking off into a shuddering moan as she felt her body tense, her thighs and lower belly burning hot with pleasure. "You're mine – all _mine_."

"Say it again," he groaned, sliding his fingers down her arms until they were on her breasts again, squeezing hard enough to hurt but it felt too good for that. "Do it for us, sweetheart. Make us _happy_."

Clara squeezed every muscle she could, holding him tighter inside until he moaned her name. "Say please," she told him, moving her arms around his back and dragging her nails down hard enough to scratch. He shuddered over her, cursed and moaned and said her name again. "Go on. Say it. Beg for me."

Malcolm's teeth were on her shoulder, biting hard enough to really, truly hurt. As penance, he replaced the bite with a kiss. " _Please,_ " he groaned.

Clara ran her nails up his neck and grabbed hold of his hair, pulling on what little she could hold. When she came it was in a long, loud moan, her back arched up, her breasts pushing against his chest. "Mine," she said through it all, listening to him grunt with pleasure and hiss and gasp, collapsing against her once his orgasm passed. "Mine, mine – _You're mine_."

A few minutes later, they both peered over at the clock on the nightstand. The hour was almost up. Forty minutes had passed. They now had both have fifteen minutes to untangle, clean up again, and shuffle off to work.

"Hey, look at that. You got your fifteen minutes," Clara said, patting Malcolm on the back.

He shook his head, laughing as he lowered his head down onto her breasts. "Ten," he said, nuzzling closer to Clara as he settled into a position that was a bit more comfortable. "Let us nap a bit."

Clara stroked Malcolm's hair and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "Five minutes," she said. They would both be late for work, but so be it. Let this be the one rare moment where Clara didn't mind giving up control, letting go - but only _slightly._

She was out of the house before Malcolm finished his coffee.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the slow downward spiral here, folks. Thanks for sticking with me! Only four more chapters 'til the end--so this should be done by Monday.

The past few days have been progressively worse than usual, and Malcolm was cracking under the strain. Clara had long since learned how to tell the signs of walking a tightrope bound to snap. It helped that Malcolm was not the sort to keep such hints from her, not when they were safe and together at home. Their house was a sanctuary – her presence, her patience, a confessional.

So when the bad day reared its head, breaking from the surface of a dark, dreamless sea of sleep, Clara cannot feign surprise. She recognized it as one who had to utter a few herself, but kept most of them to herself, seething and simmering in sour silence. She expected this. She had _time_ to expect it, time and the sort of experience from which lessons are learned and damage inflicted. It was also a natural progression of the world, at least in the way it worked for her and him. 

 _It was about time for our luck to run out,_ she thought as she fell to sleep in his arms the night before. It was the first thought she had upon waking as well. _That's just the kind of life we have – but at least we're unlucky_ _together_ _. That has to count for something._

Mornings technically arrived before the sun did, when the sky outside was still a granite frozen clump showing the eternal promise of rain. The alarm's howl filled the room like a siren screaming from the bottom of her hollow barrel lung. Iron cold and merciless. That's what mornings were like for her and him, separately, distinctly, with their own respective paths to follow. Mornings were traps from which they painstakingly escaped, only to end up back where they began: together, in spirit if not in person, and sometimes together in bed.

Jarred awake like this, a few details registered to Clara at once. The blanket had bunched up enough so that one of her legs was bare and cold, dangling off the edge of her side of the bed. Her spot was closest to the windows that overlooked the napkin-sized green square of a backyard, a little scrap of nature in which she was always promising to start a garden. The most work she'd done was dig little memorials for pets in days’ past, and take her chance on a patch of rosemary. Ophelia said it was for remembrance, but as a little girl Clara had always thought of them as faerie-sized Christmas trees. She'd turn their branches into wedding garlands for her dolls before tearing apart the little bristles. She'd crush them inside her tender fists so that the smell could seep into her skin.

Clara didn't do anything with the rosemary now.

In contrast with the cold shock running up her bare leg, the rest of Clara was warm, weighted – her arms were leaden, but comfortably occupied. There was a weight on her chest right over the steady ticking of her heart, as if she were being lovingly pressed to death. She looked down.

Of course Malcolm was there. Of course. But as comforting as this was to know and to feel, the shock of it stopped Clara cold.

_He can't stay that way. He'll have to leave soon._

Though there was little Clara could do to ease the toil that was his life and work, and though she could only just barely maintain the line when the two became dreadfully blurred, like an infection spreading to a full-on outbreak, at the very least she could be _there_ for as long as their respective work schedules allowed. She would be there until the front door opened by his hand, until his back was turned – until he left, though not for good.

Clara had developed a saying in the early stages of their life together. _The man who leaves is not the same man who prepares to leave._ Malcolm knew this as well as she did, for far longer than her in fact, but knowing what caused a wound never stopped the wound from hurting any less. The pain remained, an ache demanding to be felt.

It helped just a little to hold him tighter. It helped to feel Malcolm pull her closer in his sleep, an instinctive reaction that brought forth an immediate, warm smile. There was a strange short of charm to this kind of vulnerability, although Malcolm would laugh should she ever mention it – so of course she planned mention it once he was awake.

 _Better get on that._ "Malcolm," Clara said, her lips moving against his hair. "Malcolm, wake up."

"I already am," he muttered at once, his words slurred against her neck. His breath and lips tickled the edge of Clara's skin, as did the brief kiss he planted there. He shifted against her, pulling her into a hug even tighter than the one she gave to him, though one of his arms was trapped under her back, pinned in place. "Had to wait for you, didn't I?"

"No you didn't," Clara said at once, breezily, dismissive, but tender all the same. "But hey, thanks. I appreciate it."

After a pause for thoughts to settle in, Malcolm pulled back, moving fast from under the tangle of blankets and sheets, taking some with him as he stretched. He swore, muttered, and shoved them into a snarl towards the end of the bed.

The cold moved over Clara in a quick snap. It was like drowning. She shivered, sat up, and asked, "Hand me my cardigan?"

Malcolm turned and snatched it off the back of the desk chair from where she'd deposited it last night, but when he handed it to her the gesture was done in a steady, slower measure. She wanted to call it gentle, but that didn't feel right. The word never quite fit him, and it never should. He was too raw, too unrestrained, too... _him._ There was something to love about it all the same.

"Coffee, yeah?" he asked as Clara slid her arms through the sleeves, folding the cardigan shut to seal the warmth inside. She tried not to think about how cold it was in bed without him, or that he was likely thinking the same thing standing where he was without her.

"That would be nice. Thanks," she said, shifting towards his side of the bed and stepping down.

Malcolm considered her with a cutting, curious side-eye before he walked off at an almost stomp from the bedroom to the stairs. She followed behind, yawning into the wrist-cuff of her sleeve.

Neither of them were anything close to morning people, but where Malcolm snapped awake with very little lapse between drowsiness and his brain firing on all strained cylinders, Clara at least _attempted_ a far more relaxed approach. The more he grumbled the more she took the sting out of his sharp tongue with a cleverly timed word. Malcolm didn't mind. He even said he loved that about her once, with the same air he admitted anything sincere and kind: Voice low and eyes focused, his attention riveted to her face

Clara thought about this as she followed him down the stairs, surprised and pleased about the impact he had on her, compared and so sharply contrasted to nearly everyone else he knew. It was a kind of joke without a punchline, a game with no end in sight. Malcolm took the breath from others out of fear or a kind of reeling, incredulous doubt, and yet he stole hers with sweetness.

He would frown at the word, but it was the best one she could come up for him. Clara's idea of sweetness had changed considerably from when she was younger. Sweetness now was the effort someone made in making another person smile, and the level of care, the urgency, the cleverness involved was important, too. Sometimes the stories Malcolm brought back about work and those he tolerated there could make her smile, or even laugh if he phrased the telling just right ("Well, I _say_ tolerate, but it's no fucking different from the way you tolerate a cancer taking root in either lung, yeah?"). They only made her laugh when they weren't reminding her of something else, like how the man who left their home was never the same man who came back - but the fact that he tried, that he wanted to make this awful, wretched bit of misery into something worth laughing at... Clara wasn't sure what else to call it except for sweet. Though she was sure there was another word for it. 

For Clara, unlike the vast majority of people he had to associate with, Malcolm's power to have a simple stare knock her flat and the times in which this occurred were rarely unenjoyable. For Clara those moments of suspended, weightless breath could make her heart soar and ache in equal turns. She told Malcolm she loved that about him more than once, but the memory of the first time was what stood out the most. He had laughed through his nose, showing a wide, gleeful grin before shaking his head in a sort of self-congratulatory shrug.

"Should fucking hope you do, yeah?" he had said, laughing still, looking at her straight on. Her knees had gone weak, the same as if she'd been kissed by those lips now moving into a smirk. "It's not done for my benefit is it now, sweetheart?"

Clara joined Malcolm in the kitchen where they stood in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other askance. The coffee didn't take long to finish, and he poured her a mug first and left her to the choice of creamer, knowing it depended on her mood. Malcolm had gone for black and that made Clara pause, reflecting on the choice as she lowered her mug back to the counter. Malcolm only went for black coffee when the day was bound to be irreparably wretched.

Her hand was steady when she raised the mug again, her brain working fast. She could ask him about it, but she knew that was not for the best. Malcolm would tell her if it was something he felt capable of mentioning, if he had the energy to unleash a rant that was equal parts amusing as it was an agony to witness.

Clara knew this, trusted that he knew he could do so, just as she knew that right now Malcolm wanted the solace of silence not for a lack of words to say, but for a current preference for their absence. Malcolm often took comfort in the quiet they could share together, as opposed to the moments when the lull was meant to be ruptured by a simple question from her lips. Clara had time to learn the difference between his silences, though not much time was needed, to her surprise. _We're more alike than he wants to realize._

She knew he loved that about her. That he was grateful, even. Astonishingly so. He said it all the time, not in so many words of course, and sometimes without words at all. But she still understood that his love was there. She could see Malcolm when only a fair few bothered to really _look._

With this in mind, Clara reached out to stroke his back, her hand slipping under his shirt to slide along the knobby notches of his spine. Was he eating right? Was he eating at all? Panic flared up in the back of Clara's mind. They hadn't eaten together in weeks; even the two of them sharing a bed last night had been a surprise. She withdrew her hand, almost ashamed.

Malcolm hissed. " _Freezing_ ," he said, turning to look at her.

Clara cupped her hands around the mug. "That's why I put it there," she said succinctly, nodding sharp. "To warm up." _He's going through the coffee too fast._ She wouldn't baby him. Malcolm knew what he was doing and she understood the rituals he created in order to prepare for days like this. But that didn’t stop her from noticing, and it didn’t make being a witness any easier to bear.

"You can finish the pot," he said, dumping out the rest of his mug in the sink. It was barely a trickle, inky dark and oil-spill black. It slid down the drain like the rain now falling on the window.

Clara watched him walk off, waiting for him to look at her. He didn’t.

Malcolm prepared for work the way a prisoner might steady himself for a lethal injection, veins aflame and heart stuttering in its final, angry throbs. The same grim, gutting resolve settled over him, transforming his face into a skull's mask with a matching leer. His shoulders tightened as they fell back, stiff. Even the way he walked changed itself to a loping, heavy stride.

This wasn't the man Clara married, but it was the man that lived as an inseparable part of him, long at home inside his skin. Clara accepted this Malcolm. She pitied this Malcolm. The times she crossed paths with him, in the limited scenarios where she actually had to go to his job and see a part of what he did, Clara thought for a moment that she was almost impressed by him - until she remembered the reason why a person had to wear a mask at all. The more impressive a disguise, the more gutting it was to realize how much care was given to keep it in place, sealing shut every seam.

 _You're not going to think about that_. Clara listened to his footsteps from overhead as she made a vow. _You're going to bury these thoughts, bury them each and every time they try to pop up for air like a shrieking weed._ And yet she couldn't help but list off a few reasons why they were alive inside her head at all.

It was the weather: grim, granite grey, and cold. Even worse than usual. No one was happy when it rained.

It was the early hour: she was never at her happiest before dawn, not unless she was still up from the night before.

It was Malcolm's mood, or rather the suggestion of it, that put her in mind of all the things she could never fix, all the problems that had no solution – at least, not an easy one.

Clara finished what was left of the coffee and shut the pot off, flicking her nail across the flat, black knob. Malcolm was already coming down the stairs, walking fast. One might almost think he was eager to leave.

She met him by the door. "Can I expect you for dinner?" she asked. This too was a game, a polite one, the sham sweetness of a normal marriage. Clara already knowing the answer.

"Probably not." Malcolm buttoned his coat shut, not looking at her. "You know how it is."

"I'll wait up for you," Clara said.

"Don't. One of us should be able to get some fucking rest."

"I'll wait up for you," she said again, eyebrows raised, smile turning suggestive.

The penny dropped at last. Malcolm reached out with his other hand, cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip as he leaned down for a kiss that made her head spin and left her breath once more suspended. He kissed her again, no less eager or aching, but with a fading intensity. There was regret to this one, an apology that couldn't be said.

Malcolm straightened up and she dropped down to her normal height. They shared a long, lasting look before he opened the door again.

"I'll see you later," he said, and she couldn't help but laugh at this obvious change in argument.

"I'll be in bed," she said, hoping to see him smile one last time.

He laughed, shaking his head. But he was smiling.

Clara watched him leave, keeping the door open as long as possible. It didn’t take long for the cold air and the rain to sweep through, taking the warmth of his kiss away with every gust and breeze. The memory of him lingered; his presence, ghost-like and looming, covered her like a shroud.

 _A shawl,_ she corrected herself, running her hands up her arms. She shivered and shut the door, beginning the countdown until his warmth came back again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during episode 7 and the beginning of episode 8 from series 3 of The Thick of It.

Malcolm woke up yelling, wordless in his fury. It shocked Clara like a knife in the back. His scream was the sound of paring off skin and scraping bone.

"Malcolm – _Malcolm!_ " She grabbed his shoulders, pulling and pushing in equal turns in the hope that her touch alone could be enough to distract him from the full-body bind of his anger. "It's a dream. Just a dream."

"I know it's a dream, I just fucking had it, haven't I?" Malcolm snapped as he clawed his hand down his face, his eyes sliding shut. There was heat in his voice, real and proper anger. The first time he was ever angry with her.

Clara's hand froze on his back, her nails testing the too thin ridges of his spine. "Don't speak to me that way," she said.

Once he got down scraping his nails across his face, Malcolm's hand curled against his bottom lip, leaving his mouth half hidden. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm awake now."

"It's all right," she said quietly, more to hush him than to accept the apology. Clara continued to move her hand up and down his back, wincing at the notches of his spine and the agonizingly slender frame. All his bones pressed up against his skin, aching to burst out.

She couldn't change this; she couldn't heal him, couldn't do anything these days besides worry and shove him back into line when his mouth made him fall out of turn. It was the only time she ever got to talk to Malcolm. Work took him away for the rest.

As the silence continued and Malcolm gradually relaxed under her comforting hand, Clara thought back to yesterday morning when he had jarred her awake in a quieter but no less surprising way. She had opened her eyes to find Malcolm curled up against her chest, his hands under her back with his fingers curled around the tops of her shoulders. This after days of no contact and whole nights where she went to bed alone with nothing more than a text message to show that she had been remembered. It was almost sweet, but the memory stung more than it soothed as she compared it to the night just recently past.

Sometime last night Malcolm had pulled away from her, curling up as small as he could make his lanky, too thin body, like a man nursing a wound he would hide than let heal. It wasn't a rejection, but Clara felt the sting as surely as if he had pushed her away with a hard, flat shove of his hands. It hurt in a way that was worse than a proper wound – it was an insult, a denial, the cold, bitter refusal to have access to the one heart that she had ever loved. A heart that was clearly in need of her, but refusing to admit it.

"It's the same fucking thing every night," Malcolm said, taking her by surprise. "The same thing I see every day when I’m awake. There was a hall full of hacks spewing tumors, their gaping fucking mouths opening up around their heads," he said, gesturing with quick sudden twists of his pale hands. "Like a reverse bear-trap, yeah?"

Clara nodded, trying her best not to picture that image. "It's just your brain working off extra noise, Malcolm. Don't worry about it."

"You were there too, you know. And that was plenty fucking worrying," he said as he passed his hand over his face again. "Stuck at a country-wide pig trough of dead fucking skin stitched up and spewing shit, and you were the only one there abstaining while the rest just scraped it down to the bottom."

Clara smiled. It felt more like a thin stretch of skin that cracked open rather than an actual expression of happiness. "See? It's just like I said. Nothing but noise, nothing but... really disgusting nonsense," she said wrinkling her nose as she tried not to picture what he had described. "And it can't be the same as what you see every day, Malcolm. I haven't been to Number Ten in months."

"Well you're always on my mind, yeah? Like Willie fuckin' Nelson."

She crawled across the bed to sit in front of him instead of at his side. "Malcolm, look at me. Look." Clara took one of his hands between both of hers and stroked the thin skin, the twisted veins, and strained bones. Bloodless, pale, a wraith and a wreck. He breathed in a flat, even pace. The sound was the only noise in the room.

Finally, he did as she asked. Malcolm looked at her.

"You'll be all right," Clara said, staring him in the eye and wishing she could kiss all his agony away. But it didn't work like that, not anymore. Maybe not ever. It was getting harder to tell, harder to have faith in her past self. "You'll be fine. You can get through this. _We_ can get through this."

"No," Malcolm said, and the one was like a lance through her heart. "I don't need you involved."

He climbed out of bed. He was surprisingly steady on his feet, his back straight and shoulders down. Malcolm kept his eyes downcast as they both went downstairs, his strained silence showing no sign of letting up as he downed his burning tar black coffee, leaning back against the counter.

"Maybe it's time you take an actual holiday," Clara said into her mug. "Instead of the sham one that involved you calling over journalists and using up all the food that was left in the pantry."

"Can't do that," he said at once, his voice a wet, miserable growl. "Not yet. Not until this Fleming fucker's out of my arse."

Clara closed her mouth and kept it shut. She pulled her eyes from Malcolm's face, ignoring the way he was studying her. Did he want her to say more? Did he want anything from her? It was hard to tell.

The only reprieve from this awkward agony came when he turned at the front door to kiss Clara's forehead. He stood still long enough for her to fuss with the edges of his Paul Smith scarf.

"I'll see you soon," she said. "Come back home in one piece, you got that?"

"One can hope," he said, and he tried to smile. Tried. Failed. He hadn't smiled in days.

For an instant, just an instant, Clara's worries vanished. But that's the thing about an instant – they're just quick flashes, like little cinders dying in the grate. And all the happiness they carry never lasts.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Malcolm didn't wake up screaming, because he didn't wake up at all. He hadn't even gone to bed.

Clara hadn't slept much in the night, caught in the teeth of the worst of her fears. They were like syringes of adrenaline in her heart, their panicked rush staving off all dreams as her mind raced from one thought to the next. When sleep did arrive, it was in short, unsatisfying glimpses. Her eyes slid shut long enough only to lull her into a brief doze before time caged its jaws closed, jolting her awake with a cruel snap that made her sit up with a gasp.

"Malcolm?" she asked each time this happened, asking the dark for him, reaching her hands into the shadows for some trace, any sign, a hand, a wrist, or even a shoulder like a bird's skull, round and breakable and so cold, suddenly too frail. But she found nothing. No one was there but her.

Once the sun rose and Clara had no choice but to follow its example, she went downstairs for her first of many cups of coffee. She expected to find nothing but silence and pale dawn shadows just barely tapering off as sunlight poured into the room, lighting up the cracks and corners. But that didn't mean she wasn't also hoping to be disappointed. Perhaps Malcolm had slept on the sofa, not wanting to wake her. That happened sometimes.

She walked down the hall where the coat closet was kept, hoping to see him dozing with his mouth open, his light snores filling the room. But Malcolm wasn't on the sofa. Nothing was there except the little collection of pink and blue pillows. She paused, reflecting on their first night in this house together. They’d read Jane Eyre on that couch, pressed against those pillows.

The light leaking in from outside was all violet and blue, and it shrank back from her presence. It retreated into the yard like a tide receding. Just another cold and quiet morning alone. That's all it was. Clara had lived through them before. With a heart heavier than it was willing to admit, Clara walked into the kitchen.

She stopped short right in front of Malcolm.

“Morning,” he said, flashing her a grim smile. It was like a skull’s leer, all bone and no warmth.

Clara looked him over. He was wearing a different. Had he sneaked in while she was asleep? "How long _have_ you been here?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I stopped in for a change of clothes and waited around to give you a hello."

She folded her arms across her chest. Malcolm saw the stamp of her unspoken, bitter words on her mouth and the way the anger tightened her face. His only response was to smile again, just as grim and bitter as before. He was a man of ash and sour regrets.

"Why didn't you call me last night?"

"Lost track of time," he said. At least he looked Clara in the eyes as he said it. "I got caught up, you know. Couldn't manage it."

"Then try to," she fired back. "I don't think it's really asking much, seeing as you've done it for years without any problem."

Malcolm softened. He looked close to collapsing under the weight of some inner strain. "Things are a bit busy at the moment," he said. "They _get_ busy – sometimes they even _stay_ busy, yeah? I've known that, and you've know that too – for years."

"And I've had a problem with it for years." Clara held her arms tighter against her chest, trapped by the chill taking over her heart. The frost made weak, snap-easy twigs of her will, and she soon found her anger cooling down enough to allow her to do the one thing she always hated whenever she had a point to make, hurt feelings to reveal, or a point of contention to plant in deep. She gave in. She took the high road. "But that's... it's fine. I love you more than I love hating your job, Malcolm. And that's something you and I have also known for years."

Silence fell in the room.

Clara snapped her teeth inside her mouth. She would be damned if she would be the one to break it first. High road or not, she didn't _want_ to be the one to reach out across that yawning wordless gap only to face yet another cold-shouldered rejection. This man standing before her was slipping slowly but surely into a stranger, and the detachment was all his doing.

 _Say something. Say_ anything _– don't let him leave the house without hearing another word out of you._ But Clara couldn't say a thing. Love may have filled her mouth with a rush of words like blood crowding the edges of a fresh wound, but it was anger that locked her tongue in place and kept the words at bay.

 _Don't shut me out,_ Clara continued inside her head, staring hard at Malcolm from across the kitchen. He looked away. _Please, please, I'm here, I'm always here – so stop leaving me behind._

Clara knew that he couldn't always stay, couldn't always be there as she wished him to be. There were even a few times she had to run out on him – their anniversary sprang to mind with bitter, haggard irony. But just because he put so much of himself in his work recently – though she had little understanding as to why, apart from angry calls her father gave about how the regime was collapsing slowly under its own bloated weight – this didn't mean that Malcolm had to pull so much of himself away from her.

_Just a part of you, that's all I ask. Just one little part._

Clara worked through her discomfort long enough to ask, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm said at once, his gaunt face trying for a smile. "I'm managing."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked. She knew Malcolm would say no, that he would shake his head and maybe try for another smile if he was feeling up to more than two in a single conversation.

“No, I’m fine.”

He riveted his attention to her every move, carefully studying the little path she paced from the coffee pot to the cabinet where the mugs were kept. He waited until she poured the rest of the pot into her chipped daisy mug before he snatched at her shoulders, spun her around, and locked her tight in his arms.

The strained cage of his ribs were flat against Clara's chest and neck as he huddled over, bending lower to reach her height so that his face rested in the crook of her neck. It was as if her were trying to pull her into his aching heart. He was so thin! Bones and grief all horribly hidden in his stretched-out skin.

"Malcolm?" Clara's voice fell muffled into his chest, joining the hum of his heart. Closing her hands at the back of his suit and pulling on the fabric, she shut her eyes and listened to him take in a long, weary breath. He straightened up on the exhale, as if he had drawn more life in than he had let out. "Remember what I told you? You can get through this. You _will_ get through this. It's happened before, it'll happen again, and you always find a way to survive."

He said nothing. He continued saying nothing, even when he stepped back to look down into her eyes, his hands sliding up to clutch at her face and hold her in place, as if he were certain she would disappear if he let go. Clara's lips were bruised by the strength of his kisses, and he pressed himself so hard against her that she nearly bent back over the counter, her chest arched up against his own. Malcolm trapped her under his mouth, and when they broke off for air her head was spinning, all her thoughts lost in the whirl that always followed in the wake of his touch.

Malcolm stepped back, all but shrinking from her touch. And then he was walking away, leaving her. "I'll see you later," he said, not looking back. "Or I'll call you if I can't, yeah?"

Her ears ringing, Clara followed after to watch him go. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her eyes stricken with the pin-prick pain of new tears. She didn't let a single one fall until the door swung shut and sealed her husband on the other side.

 

Malcolm didn't come home that night. He did, however, call to tell Clara that he wouldn't be there, and laughed bitterly at her thanks.

"It's the least I can do," he said. "You're holding up fine over there, aren't you? All alone I expect? Unless you brought a bit of paperwork home as some company."

"I finished grading all of the seventh years' essays and I'm still waiting on the remedial class to turn in their reports on  _The Fall of the House of Usher_ , so I actually don't have anything home with me right," she said. Clara bit her lip and closed her eyes. It was easier to be honest on the phone. Easier and perhaps a little foolish as well. It's not like admitting this would change anything for the better. They would still be apart. "I miss your face. Any chance I can see it for a few minutes tonight?"

Malcolm took a breath. It sounded like the hiss of a radio screaming out static. "That's not likely, sweetheart. No."

He sounded so broken, his voice splintered. Clara took a breath and fought to keep the tears pinned back in the corners of her eyes. No use for them here, not now. "Or I could pop in for a late night visit like I used to. Remember those times in the cupboard?"

She could almost hear Malcolm's teeth snap shut like the collapse of his own will. "Sweetheart, _please,"_ he hissed.

Clara's throat closed like a fist, all knotted bone and quivering flesh. "Forget it. I'll see you next time you're home – whenever that is."

Malcolm rang off without saying another word.

 

Clara didn’t see him again for two days.

 

She had the same nightmare for two nights.

In the dream, London was foggier than she had ever seen it, a fog so dark and thick she could push her hand through and part it like a curtain. Instead of revealing a clearer image of the streets around her however, it showed nothing more than a simple, bitter fact: the haze persisted despite her efforts to understand. Clara's confusion was impossible to dismiss.

Clara was alone, that much was clear. At least, _she felt_ alone. That bit of intuition had to count for something. No one emerged from the fog as she wandered the streets, and its choking grey cloak prevented her from doing more than managing a brief glimpse at the pavement beneath her feet.

She might have been alone but there were still cars and buses on the road, glossy bits of banged up plastic and metal rounding corners and idling at intersections as if nothing had changed at all – except there were no drivers to be seen. The lack of people wasn't the only problem visible to her, it was the strangeness of the world, the uneven, near-to toppling architecture of both buildings and vehicles that made Clara painfully aware that nothing around her was in any way stable. This imitation London was made not to withstand but to crumble, and the more she wandered deeper into the fog the more she realized she was the only witness around to this impending collapse. It was an honor she didn't want to have.

The double deckers that passed on the road made Clara grit her teeth and cringe. They were all built too tall, too thin. There weren't enough tires bolted on to support the bulk, and the buses tipped on their edges at every turn they made. Clara's heart was in her throat as each one passed, taking up its usual panicked space that flushed out all the air and made her struggle just for a simple sigh or a gasp. She thought about stopping. A part of her even thought about screaming, though she didn't see the point in that. Nor did she see the harm. She was alone. She was lost and alone in a city close to folding up and collapsing like a moving partition that sectioned off rooms in traditional Japanese houses, and all she wanted was to go back home. But dreams seldom obeyed Clara's wishes. She was no lucid dreamer, and had little success in bending even her waking mind to her will, much less when she was out for the night and subject to all the backlog of noise gathered up in her mind like gunk in a drainpipe. Simply knowing that she was dreaming helped Clara accomplish nothing more but further heights of frustration. Just like when she was awake, knowing what the problem was very seldom led to a way to getting rid of it. Something else was necessary to do that. Will and courage and conviction, perhaps. It was hard to focus on any of that just now.

"I want to go home," Clara said to herself. "I want to see Malcolm." With arms wrapped like ropes across her chest, Clara tucked her chin down, kept her eyes pinned to the ground, and hoped. She hoped that the fog would lift. She hoped that she would find a way out of this endless stretch of bending, grey-coated road and back to a street she knew. She hoped that the thread of tension running all throughout the dream like a cruel web somehow found a way to break without breaking her with it. She hoped for Malcolm, and for home.

The more Clara walked and the more she hoped, and the more she repeated the same words to yourself – "I want to go home, I want to see Malcolm. I want to go home, I want to see Malcolm," – the more the ground beneath her feet began to crack open. It didn't snap completely apart, it only made gaps wide enough for Clara to see down into an impossible world below.

The trains that ran around beneath the concrete sputtered like dying engines giving one last puff before the inevitable collapse. Rust-eaten, corrosion-gutted metal screamed down deeper into the darkness, gnawing and gnashing further along the roots of the world beneath her – and leading nowhere. Hundreds of smaller people were walking beneath the road that was quaking under her every step, all of them about the size as ants but with less marching and more wanderlust. They stumbled with every step they took, unlike Clara – but she had no idea where she was going either, and soon this knowledge made Clara stagger, a shambling marionette looming monstrous over the smaller puppets. They were all so small, so delicate, all of them walking along a trembling hair-thin line that held the world together.

And that's when she realized. It made no difference where a person was in the world. Above or below, in a fog or wandering in the steady push and thrust of a crowd, no one was guaranteed success or relief in anything they did. No one was guaranteed a damn thing but the same struggle and the fear of collapse.

"I want to go home. I want _Malcolm_." The ache in Clara was like a phantom pain, excruciating to the mind yet nothing more but an invention of neurons and failed synapses. Clara's fear was a wound's haunting stab that time could not properly erase. This fear-burned scar bore a familiar shape in her heart – large nose, thin lips, pale eyes, long ears. A collection of features that shouldn't be handsome, but to her was more beautiful than any carefully honed and marble-crafted rent-boy in the entire Greek fucking pantheon.

Her home was in Malcolm's bones, her love tucked safe within his. Where was he in this dream? Probably still at work, pacing up and down an infinite stretch of Downing Street like a soldier guarding his own tomb. But he wasn't just theirs to command until his bones were marrowless husks they could use to pick out bits of him from their teeth. Clara knew this. She had always known this. _He's mine, too. My friend, my love, my husband. I want him back, I want him safe, I want him here with me. I want him home again._

In the dream, Clara lifted her head, closed her eyes, and hoped once again. She hoped that the dream would end. She hoped that Malcolm would be by her side when she woke up – and she hoped above all else that he wanted to be there too. Clara hoped that he wanted to be with her more than he wanted to reclaim all the power he was steadily hemorrhaging as he faded not into obscurity, but into a venomous antipathy amassed over the years. It was all a poisoned barb of Malcolm's own design, fashioned for his own quartering. Clara knew this in the way dreams can whisper truths to a quieted mind, the way a traitorous brother might slip poison into his sleeping brother's ear in quest for reign and queen.

She didn't let go of the thought even after she had long woken up. Poisons are hard to purge, especially from a mind accustomed to gorging on every toxic draught wrongly labelled hope.

 

A phone call woke her from the dream. With her hopes dead on her lips, Clara woke up to the sound of Malcolm's voice in her ear. He whispered her name, his voice hushed and sigh-thin like a prayer. "It's all a wreck, love. All of it. Everything I've done and worked for. It's all crumbling down into fucking pieces here."

"No it isn't," she argued, her voice still thick with the slur that dreamers use. "You can handle it. You've been working so hard, _something_ good has to come from all that."

"And when has that ever fucking meant anything?" he hissed. Not out of anger, not out of any kind of rage at all, but a sorrow that went so deep Clara could barely find the heart to take hold of and heal. "What good has all this ever fucking done. You tell me, right?"

Clara shut her eyes, taking shelter in the darkness. The bedroom was starting to fill up with daylight, but she had never wanted the sun any less than she did now. "Just... try to relax, Malcolm. All right? Try to breathe. And have a little more confidence in yourself."

"It's not confidence I'm lacking here, Clara. It's proper fucking appreciation by all the hacks and tumour-spewing wankers who get more leverage around here than their own fucking competence deserves."

"I know, Malcolm. Trust me, _I know_. It's been like that for years and it's never – it's never stopped you before." _It won't stop you now,_ she wanted to say, but she didn't. She couldn't. It felt too much like a lie coated in all the naïve trappings of hope.

"I love you." Malcolm's voice was like a lonely echo in the night. "Have I said that to you lately? Well I do. I love you, Clara."

She thumbed tears from the corners of her eyes and tried to hide her strangled sodden gasp as a cough. "I love you too," she said. "Come home soon. Please."

"I want to. I'm trying." And he meant it. Clara knew that he meant it. She could hear the raw sincerity in his voice. But neither one could have expected him to come home quite like he did.

 

Malcolm rushed home early, hounded up to the doorstep by the press that all but trampled through the hedges for a photo of him. He brought with him the best, most awful news that Clara had ever heard.

"Mind the fucking hedges!"

Three things pulled Clara from her nap. The sound of Malcolm's voice, the sudden clattering roar of what sounded like a crowd of three dozen outside on her lawn, and the house-rattling slam of a door banging back into the wall. She opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling, and paused to gather her bearings. Malcolm was home – and he was home far earlier than he ought to have been.

Clara walked out of the bedroom and came to a hard stop at the top of the stairs. Malcolm was standing on the ground floor with his back to her, having just slammed the door shut. His right hand was flattened on the glass, fingers splayed and pressed flat. Even from a distance she could see that his hand was shaking.

She was down the stairs and at Malcolm's side before she could even catch her breath. It was pointless to tell herself not to panic. She was already too far gone into mind-spinning dread.

There were unshed tears in his eyes as he turned to look at her, the blue made even more startling by the gloss and bloodshot smears. His expression cracked the longer he looked at Clara, as if every second he held her gaze was a direct attack to his carefully maintained, fast unravelling composure.

"Malcolm?" Clara's voice was barely audible over the racket outside, a din she dreaded to call attention to. "What happened?"

"Haven't you heard? There's a fucking lynch mob out on the lawn, in case you haven't noticed," he said, smiling in the most awful, unamusing way. He stood there frozen like a marble colossus dressed in his dark wool coat, Paul Smith scarf, not quite grey suit, and tie. The latter was red like a bloodstain. It stood out like someone had split his chest from his throat to the bottom of his ribs, a living autopsy on a man trying his best to outlast his career's lifespan.

"No, I've been home all day with the telly off," she said as she shook her head, one hand stroking his back while the other reached down to take hold of his left hand. Their rings clacked together. "What happened?" she asked again.

"Then you should consider yourself lucky, sweetheart," he said, still smiling that awful smile. He was trying to laugh as well, which only made it worse. "You're hearing the news straight from the shot horse's mouth itself."

Why wouldn't he stop smiling? Clara searched his eyes back and forth, dreading the answer. Like all bad news, it made all the difference to be told. "Malcolm..."

He cut her off. "As far as all the fucking vultures out there know, I have officially, finally, and with full free fucking will, resigned from my duties at Number Ten. But as far as you and I know, I was given the sack."

Clara closed her eyes. Bravery found her through the worst of her fear, pulling hard at the cage she was trying to swing shut. _Don't do this, don't abandon him. Not now, he needs you._ Clara's courage forced her to open her eyes and look at Malcolm again.

It happened. It finally happened. The one terrible thing she had been wishing for secretly in the one corner of her heart that she kept to herself. _They let go of him. They let him walk free._

Malcolm’s face twisted up into a hideous grin, the wrinkles in his cheeks coated with tears. They slid down his face in the same way a crystal glass might weep in the heat. "I was sacked," he said again, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. He started to shake with silent laughter, and Clara waited for the telltale noise to come before it became clear that it wasn't going to happen. He wasn't shaking for laughter at all, but something else. Something awful and agonizing. "They sacked _me_."

Clara reached out to take him in her arms. For all his bone-thin body he was now heavy, so heavy. Malcolm fell into her with his teeth bared and his hands flat and fingers curved like a sickle's grasp. He pulled at her, pulled and clawed and scratched like a drowning man eager to find the surface again, gasping for the air even if it meant his lungs would burst for the effort. Still he didn't cry. He didn't make a single sound as the pair stood there, chest to chest, hearts straining up as if determined to pound their way out of their ribs. Malcolm's shoulders hitched up once or twice like a bird trying to fold its wings against the winds of a savage storm, and in this raw burning need he displayed here and now before Clara, and behind the frosted glass of the front doors, keeping out all the shouting world that sought to make a meal of his broken glory, she realized something.

Malcolm was hers, he was all hers at last.

Clara's heart was torn between two songs, one for pain and the other for victory. Malcolm was free – he just didn't know it yet. She wouldn't mind telling him after a few days had passed, when the wounds on his pride had time to seal over into the gloss of newly made scabs. He would listen to her. He had to, he must. He loved her. He had to. They had let him go, cut him loose – but Clara wouldn't let him drown. He would rise up better, braver, stronger than they all expected him to be.

 _He has to_ , she thought, running her nails through his hair and staring over his shoulder. The light from the backyard filtered in through the early afternoon sun, bloodless pale and maggot white. _He has to, he must. He has me._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have entered the mood whiplash stage of our story, dear readers. Hold on tight, the end is near.

Clara most definitely did not want a divorce, but she _did_ want to remove herself as politely and painlessly from a life with Malcolm as much as she possibly could. And she wanted to do it without ripping apart the marriage entirely. The trouble was figuring out how – and whether or not she should bother telling Malcolm.

The fact that Clara didn't want to break away from her husband was one of the few silver linings left to their marriage, or whatever the hell it had turned into now. Did it still count as a marriage if all that really held them together were the rings they wore? That was a tenuous connection at best. Rings could come off so easily. They could fall down drains or get lost in laundry machines at the blink of a careless eye. It wasn't much of a tie at all, was it? A hook would have suited far better, or perhaps a suture.

But Clara didn't want to think like that. Not now. It was important that she stayed brave in times like this, trying times, hard times, times that ate at her heart and devoured the love inside. Hard times didn't last. They couldn't. Life wasn't always devoted to moments of pain, like a tapestry dedicated to all the reasons happiness couldn't survive.

 

* * *

 

Was there a nicer way to say something was broken? Probably not. What about _valiantly damaged_? No, that was two words – a phrase, even. However, _valiantly damaged_ applied far more accurately to her and Malcolm than _happy couple_ currently did. They had been a couple for years, and perhaps even still were, but that was being a bit generous with the word. Surely couples didn't always feel so guilty when they made contact with each other. Most of them even lived under the same roof, and Clara had marched out almost two years ago, with her head high and her eyes tear-struck blind.

That day was both Clara's proudest moment and her death. For the past eighteen months, her marriage existed in the nebulous marital state of two people who knew they shouldn't still be in love, but weren't about to let a little thing like sense stop them. It was like a scab you couldn't help but pick at, a wound you wouldn't let heal, because the idea of letting the damage seal over was worse than the pain of worrying over it. Their love for each other was a long-term habit they both longed to keep, no matter how much misery went into the maintenance. Clara just reached the breaking point first.

All the room that love had made in her heart had been half overthrown by the rotten root of disappointment. She expected better out of Malcolm _because_ she loved him once, loved him even still, and if she felt more guilt than she did joy at how much he could still thrill and sway her heart, then that was purely Clara's own problem to fix and cross to bear.

 

* * *

 

Their marriage wasn't always doomed to fail. Clara had to believe that. There had been a small window of opportunity where happiness might have climbed in. Its greatest chance to thrive was the day after Malcolm was sacked. It lasted for about the same length of time that an American mayfly can be born, live, breed, and die. A day. Just a day. Not even twenty-four hours at that.

Any chance Clara might have had to celebrate her husband's release from Number Ten – _and it was more like a gaol sentence than a career,_ she thought, _especially towards the end_ – was quickly dashed when Malcolm took on a lesser job only days after his sham resignation. Like a junkie slipping up into a relapse. Sure, Clara could have blamed that Julius Tight-Arse Nicholson bloke for most of it, but that would require him to be a man worthy of her dislike.

_Nicholson only rang up with the offer, which Malcolm was more than free to turn down. He wasn't forced into it. He made his choice without you._

Clara used to say this like a mantra on a daily basis during those miserable six months when she chose to "tough it out" with Malcolm, for the greater good of their marriage. That was all over and done with now, the toughing out part. It didn't matter how much Clara willed herself to be patient and pliant, nor did it matter how skillfully she could close herself over until she became steel cold and iron strong. Clara was still hurting, still hoping to stop hurting, and her life with Malcolm just wasn't offering it. Not anymore.

There were times even now, long after her decision to move into her own flat, where Clara couldn't help but lapse into a self-pitying mode. It was a horrible habit, like tonguing the cut on the roof of her mouth, as if prodding the ache would get it any closer to healing. Luckily the only witnesses to this self-indulgent misery were Clara herself and Miles, the stray cat she used to feed at the old house.

Miles was something of an enabler for her tiny violin solo, but to be fair there were much worse habits to have other than feeling sorry for herself over the greatest romantic upset of her entire adult life. She even had a literary precedent for the behavior.

" _'He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat,_ '" Clara said to Miles once. It was during the early days of her separation from Malcolm, when she still talked to herself out loud. Clara had curled up in bed and watched Miles try to find the best place to lie down, waiting for sleep to come and take her into what she was sure would be another hideous dream of grey phantoms and loss. _That's all I ever dream about anymore._

"That line's from Spenser, you know," she continued, as if the cat gave a damn about her mental arsenal of English literature. "From _The Faerie Queene_ specifically. Malcolm would have laughed at me for quoting it. He didn't do it to be mean, he just... wanted to have a laugh, I suppose. But I think I like your reaction better."

All Miles had done in response to this sentence was curl up with his paws as a pillow and drift into an easy sleep. He was training her to accept silence. It was quite a hard thing to get used to after all those years with Malcolm, all the sound and the fury and the noise of him and them, together, in love or something close enough like it.

Clara had liked the noise, his noise specifically. But towards the end she would rather he had never spoke at all. Malcolm’s silences would have hurt so much less than his lies.

 

* * *

 

" _It won't be much longer now, sweetheart,"_ Malcolm used to say, smiling wide the way he always did when he wanted to charm her love struck and heart blind. But she was smarter than that. She knew something was wrong.

Clara knew this smile was a forgery, but it had taken some time before she could rightly admit it. Denial wasn't just a stage of grief, but a constant element of love. _His love_ , she corrected. _Ours. His and mine._

_"I'm only staying on for a bit more. It's only a temporary position. Just until the Barnum and fuckin' Bailey election circus is all cleared off. Then I can leave."_

But when the election was over, and his party had well and thoroughly lost, Malcolm showed no sign of leaving that "temporary position" at all. Instead, Malcolm hid most of the damage, staying out for the usual long hours and late nights that soon stretched into entire days where he was absent. When Clara did see him, his smiles were less wide and his eyes were darker than ever, stained with the shadow of burning regret.

The most painful part was that the lies didn't stop. Not for a second.

" _They need me to stay on for only a month or so. Strictly an advisory position, love. I'm on clean up duty now, see. There's a tsunami of piss the old regime left behind when the results came in. I'll see if I can funnel it all into Dan Miller's morning espresso enema."_

As the lies continued in the days that followed, Clara's denial began to slip, turning into reluctant curiosity. Something had changed inside her husband after the sacking and the far too speedy rehiring. A seed of some awful, vile plant was buried down into his heart and gnawed on the very roots of him, draining all that Malcolm could once call worth until it was sun-bleached and gasping dry.

 _And I let him lie to me,_ she thought more than once. It was a kind of mental flagellation, one she knew she deserved to suffer. _I let him smile and lie and lie and lie, and I never say a word. I never question it._

It was worse when Malcolm didn't bother elaborating on the lies, but added on promises they both knew he had no intention to keep. _"Just a little while longer now, Clara. I'm almost done, then we can take that honeymoon we always wanted. Just the two of us."_

Clara had nothing to say to this. Nor did she bother to move at all when Malcolm leaned down for a kiss. Her stillness had scared Malcolm something awful; she saw the fear enter his eyes as the light left it.

There was something thrilling about that, about denying him the easy reward of his own lie.

Clara stood there in the front hall, her hands dead limp at her side and her head tilted back to return Malcolm's stare. She watched with a surge of grim pleasure as Malcolm's eyes opened just a little wider, his mouth falling open in the smallest slack-jawed shock. Malcolm was a clever man. Surely, he had to know that she had sealed off a part of herself so far and well out of the reach of all his lies and promises and sham, imitation smiles. Surely, he had to know that every word he uttered was a word wasted and dead to her heart. He was such a careful, almost surgically observant man, surely he could see how unmoved Clara was and had been for weeks, and how irretrievable her heart was from even his desperate, groping grasp.

And if he didn’t know before, then he knew now.

 

* * *

 

Clara remembered the day when the decision to leave finally dawned on her. It hit her like a long night cracking open under the hard iron spike of sunlight: _There's nothing keeping me here anymore._ Not the hope that Malcolm would eventually leave his work, not even her belief that he was worth all this disappointment and strangled expectation, not even her love for him. She had done her waiting from the moment she said those vows and took that ring and kissed him. She had done her waiting for six bloody years. There was nothing left to wait for, not any more.

She had waited so quietly and so sweetly, and Malcolm had lied and smiled and lied, and she had taken all she could until there was no room left in her but the dregs of dread and the first poisonous trace of regret for the entire romance. _There's nothing keeping me here anymore._

It was a rare warm day, one of the few February days that was above freezing that year. The sun shone straight in through their bedroom window on that morning, lighting up the too big and mercifully empty bed.

The idea to leave Malcolm lit up in Clara's mind with all the burning clarity of a spark eating tinder. It was as if a scorned faerie had placed it there for her to savor. "I can just leave," she said to the mostly empty room, staring at the ceiling and the pale, fading shadows as the night bled away. "I can pack up today and leave. I could do it. Really, I could."

It was terrifyingly simple. Just pick up the phone and put in the call to her old landlord, Mr. Lim, and ask if he still had a flat to rent. They had struck up quite a nice friendship during her stay at the old flat. That friendship now mostly consisted of an exchange in holiday cards and _Thinking of you!_ notes whenever the anniversary of his partner's death reared up at the end of August, but it was a friendship all the same. Mr. Lim was sure to be delighted to have her back. He would always joke that he would keep one place free for Clara, his most reliable tenant. She might have to make a few pleas on behalf of Miles the Cat being in the picture now, and she would have to wait for Mr. Lim to grumble about security deposits and allergies, but he wouldn't say no. Not to her. And then Clara could hang up knowing she had successfully taken the first bitter step to get the hell out of here.

So what was the problem?

All Clara had to do was keep her plan from Malcolm until she was carrying the last box out the door, and even then she might not explain anything to him. She might just peer over her shoulder with a blank stare and a cold look as she asked him to shut the door after, ignoring his questions and pleas.

But could she do that? Did she have it in her to be so cruel? Clara stared at the sunlight bleeding in through the window and wondered at the answer.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, after the call to Mr. Lim had gone through and they had worked out the new terms of her lease, Clara started packing whatever she could get her hands on. She would have to leave behind most of her books, but with a fast pace and perhaps a few bin bags to store her clothes, she could be out of the house by the end of the week.

 _Malcolm won't even notice. He might not even be here when I'm out the door._ It was a tempting thought. No last goodbye, no parting note, no farewell message at all, not even a thank you for all the laughs and good sex. She wouldn’t even be cheap enough to leave voice-mail, which was where all her calls were being forwarded to these days. Sometimes that was the only way Clara got to hear Malcolm's voice at all.

The closer the time came to her leaving, the more tempting the thought of disappearing without a word became. And, because the universe works in malicious ways, it didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t happen.

Malcolm caught Clara packing the very last of her things from the half-empty closet. Despite all her cruel convictions and steel resolve, her heart jumped when looked up and saw Malcolm frozen in the doorway. His stare was harsh, hard, demanding.

Clara lifted her chin and held his gaze as if there were a hook between her stare and his, the curved edge digging deeply into both, like fish hook in the eye.

She looked Malcolm over in silence. His expression was difficult to read, as it always was when he wasn't lying, and his lovely blue eyes were as dark and clouded as ever. There was a bouquet of flowers in his hands. That hurt. It was strange how much that hurt.

Clara watched as Malcolm's face became thunderously dark. An awful, pleading confusion took over Malcolm's face as he stared at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving, his eyes as watery as rain-streaked glass.

"Are those for the mantle?" she asked, nodding to the flowers.

"They’re for you," he said. His voice was as flat as if he were the one under her hands.

For just a second her eyes dropped away. It took a twist in her heart and a voice screaming loud from the far buried back of her mind to make Clara look at him again. "You should get used to saving them for the mantle," she said.

Clara could have done Malcolm the courtesy of looking away after the blow of these words sank in, but she didn't see the point. He caught her in the act. She had nothing left to hide. She was leaving, finally leaving. That's all that mattered. The least she could do was look him in the eye as she drew and quartered his heart. _He deserves that much._

"For how long?" he asked.

Malcolm made no move to step into the room, but his rail thin body, so painful to behold, with the bones always straining tight and making his skin seem weak enough to rip apart at any moment, leaned towards her. Hook to hook again, pulling tight whenever the other one gave just a little bit.

"I dunno, Malcolm. That depends."

"On?"

"On how long were you going to keep lying about leaving your job," she said, smiling. It didn't reach her eyes. It was a low blow and most assuredly a petty remark to make, especially with the fake smile in the end. But he had it coming, goddammit. He deserved every bit of the ache he was feeling.

Even with this thought, Clara would have forgiven Malcolm for everything if he had just dropped to his knees right then and there, and begged for her forgiveness. She would have thrown her arms around him and kissed away those tears he kept locked in his eyes if he just admitted that he had been lying from the day he took that call from Julius. She would have forgiven him for everything if he swore on his rapidly approaching grave that he would abandon it all—the power, the violence, the verbal viciousness and the political prestige—for her.

 _Do it, please. Drop down and let go._ _Give me a reason to stay. Don’t let me go. Please. Please._

Malcolm didn't kneel. He didn't plead. He didn't admit to anything. If Clara could be petty than he was more than willing to take the low road with her. "You're leaving because I have a steady fucking job? A _career_ even, yeah?" His mouth crooked up at the corner as he laughed, derisive and cruel.

That sick, sickle grin didn't reach his eyes. They were still swimming, still oddly glimmering like drowned glass.

Clara raised her eyebrows and looked him over from head to toe, barely hiding her own laugh. "Your _job_ ended when the PM fired you without even bothering to walk down the stairs to say it to your face," she said, her anger rising up to make her voice higher, her words harsher. Her own hands started to shake as adrenaline rushed in. "Everything after that has been a joke, not a job, and I'm tired of pretending it's worth a laugh."

Malcolm's hand tightened on the bouquet, making the cellophane crackle like hissing sparks in the grate. He leaned against the door frame, his shoulder slamming up against the bone white wood. "Anything else you're tired of pretending?" he asked, his voice soft.

There was something cagey about this new position and tone. Clara didn't feel trapped, not exactly, but there was a tension in Malcolm's stance and a cold, hard demand frozen in his eyes that glimmered in the wake of all the burning hidden words he wouldn't dare say.

Once the words were out it was hard to get them to stop, like a wound newly torn by a blade sharp and true. "I'm tired of pretending to be happy," she said, her eyes starting to sting as her voice broke. She clawed at the back of her neck and scratched her fingers through her hair before letting her hand fall down limp at her side, the fingers bent. "I'm tired of being second place in your life. I'm tired of our marriage coming up short each and every bloody time it has to go up against your _career_."

Clara's bent fingers became a fist, the nails digging little Cheshire-grinning moons into her palms. "I never asked you to change anything for me, but I did hope – I _thought_ that you would decide to do that on your own. I hope you’d be smart enough to see how terrible this job is for you, how much you hate it, how much you hate everything to do with it. And when you were sacked I thought, ' _Here it is, finally. He's going to get out. He's free, and I won't have to share him anymore.'_ "

Why was she smiling? Of all the times to smile and have tears flood her eyes until she was grieving blind, now certainly was not that time. And why did Malcolm look so horrified?

Her voice shook like a leaf in a storm. "You had a chance to turn them down. You could have said no, you could have walked away and found something else." Clara's mouth seemed to be moving by someone else's command now, all the words spilling out like so much blood on the floor, but she couldn't stop talking, no, she wouldn't stop. "You could have chosen to be honest with me instead of thinking you'd get away with lying, but you didn't. You chose them, _again_. You chose to lie to me, to _me,_ again and again. So now I'm making a choice and for once _you're_ going to know what it’s like to be left behind."

“Not like this,” he said, his voice cracked clean through. “Don’t let it end like this.”

Clara said nothing. Let her silence carve deeper wounds than words.

Malcolm fell silent. He stood in the doorway, watching her finish packing and seal up last the box with tape. When she hefted it off the bed and balanced it in her arms, holding it against her chest as she approached the doorway, Malcolm shifted aside, giving enough space for her to pass by him.

Her head barely clearly that thin, tense shoulder, and for a flashing frightening second, Clara thought about the body beneath those clothes. She thought about the man in that skin with the heart and blood and lips and mind she used to cling to, and that back she would dig her nails into, and that face she would cover with kisses and little playful bites - but just as quickly as the flash arrived, so suddenly did it abandon her. Those were memories of brighter days and happier nights. They didn't belong to Clara any more.

As Clara headed out into the hall, Malcolm finally broke his silence. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

She didn't stumble, but she did stop walking lest her knees give out along with what remained of her courage. It seemed a damn near miracle that she could still stand at all.

_Give me a reason to stay. Don’t let me go. Please. Please._

"You should get those flowers in some water first,” she said.

 

* * *

 

The separation didn’t last long. It was easier for Clara to see Malcolm on a limited basis after she left the house. A meal together once a week was the most either of them could manage for a while, but even that was better than absolute abandonment. Neither of them could handle that.

As an unspoken throwback to her courtship days, Malcolm came over to Clara's flat once a night for dinner, which she usually cooked herself, much to his proud delight. Clara was just happy that she finally had a chance to show off what she had learned to the one person who would properly appreciate her new culinary skills.

As these weekly dinners proved to be a success, after a few months Clara decided to give Malcolm an open invitation to visit her flat any time he wished, for whatever reason he could think of, provided it was an honest one. To see Miles, to relax after work, or just to avoid the discomfort and heavy quiet of the half empty house, all of these were perfect valid reasons for him to visit, provided he also follow two simple rules: Malcolm always had to call before he stopped by, and he was not allowed to spend the night.

To Malcolm's monumental credit, he made no fuss nor voiced even the merest tut of complaint about her bedroom embargo. Perhaps he knew it was just a matter of time before her so-called iron will about not laying more than a friendly hand on him crumbled, too. It had only taken a couple days for Clara to extend the olive branch and ask him over for dinner, after all.

Clara did eventually go back on this "no sex" rule, but to _her_ credit it had taken her almost four months to finally cave – and it only happened on accident. They were both watching _Twin Peaks_ when the night started to take a turn from the strained but pleasant to disastrously irreversible territory.

The sound of Malcolm's heart was what really pushed Clara over the edge. She lay on his chest, his hands on her back and in her hair, and the words came spilling out of her mouth as if every little pound of his pulse drew the truth from her.

"I don't want you to feel trapped with me. I only want you here if you want to _be_ here."

Malcolm waited for the scene to change before he answered.

"Well I _was_ going to ask why you always lock the door behind me whenever I walk in," he said, his voice turning into a low rumble in his chest as he smothered a laugh. "But I figured I better not risk it."

Clara pushed herself up by her elbows and peered at Malcolm. He was already watching her, his interest in the show having vanished completely the second he heard her voice.

"That came out a bit more awkward than I had planned," she admitted, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile. "I just meant... I'm still holding onto you, clearly. Not literally but - oh fine, yes that too, but I'm still holding on to what little we still have together... and what I'm _not_ doing is asking how you feel about it. And that, erm... well, that seems to me like I'm keeping you here when you might not want to be."

Malcolm's hand slid off her hair and joined the other hand he had under her shirt. He smiled as he searched Clara's eyes. It was an honest smile this time. She could tell by the way it lit up his eyes, making them a watery beautiful grey.

"I'm usually the first person to notice when I'm on my worst behavior," Clara added when he didn’t speak, resting her chin in her hand and crossing her legs at the ankles. The telly hummed behind them, the episode going completely ignored now. "But I don't always step in to stop myself."

"Do you really think I feel forced into coming to see you?" he asked.

"No, not at all," she said at once, bristling. But Malcolm wasn't finished.

"Look. I know you're being selfish. I know it and I can't rightly blame you for it, seeing as I would have done it first if you hadn't beat me to it."

Clara chewed on the inside of her cheek, sliding her teeth gently against the soft skin. "What d'you mean?" she asked.

"Do you think you're alone in enjoying this new little arrangement we've got?" Malcolm asked, sliding his hands up her back, his fingers skirting lightly over her bra clasp. He hadn't touched it before, hadn't even teasingly called attention to it, but this open display of care only made Clara so much more aware of how much _he_ was aware of her. "You don't think by standing back and letting you yank me all the fuck about, leaving but not really staying away, that I'm not also enjoying our own little watered down homage to Marquis de fucking Sade?"

"Oh come off it, Malcolm. It's not _that_ bad."

"I don't think it's bad at all," he argued gently.

Malcolm's eyes ticked down to her mouth. He freed his hands from Clara's shirt and slid his fingers along her back to her hips. "I could've asked you to stay, you know. I could have gone down on my knees and begged you not to leave, and you would have done it. But I didn’t." His tone began to waver into a pitiful, humorless laugh. "What sort of a husband doesn't even try that?"

Clara thought about that evening in the Slug and Lettuce, when Malcolm had proposed to her – or rather, when Malcolm had tricked her into doing the proposal since he was far too nervous to do it for himself. The answer to his question came easily to Clara after diving into that still fond memory. "The kind of husband who was smart enough not to promise his wife perfection," she said, reaching out to stroke his cheek and smooth her fingers over the hard, deep edge of his forehead, which was all the more prominent now that he was scowling. "The kind of husband who swore down to his seminal fluid to do right by her."

"You remember that line?" Malcolm asked, snorting.

"Of course I remember it. It's one of the most romantic things you've ever said to me - and it's not as if I have a very long list to work with."

"Yes, yes, there you go," Malcolm said, pretending to shake his head in weary dismissal. "Cut me down for all my shortcomings, Clara, go on. Don't know why I still make the fucking trip over here."

"I do," she said.

"Do tell," he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down her back.

"Because you're just as much of an honest, selfish horror as me. We're in love, Malcolm. Yes, I know I left you but I didn't _really_ leave you and you just said it too, so shut up," Clara said in a rush, pressing her hand flat against his mouth before he could do more than open it in obvious protest. "I left you but I didn't really leave because there was no bloody way I ever could, and no matter what I said to you in that room that day, I still love you. I do. I love you. If I didn't it wouldn't hurt when you let me down all the time."

Malcolm turned his head to free his mouth from her muzzling hand. "You do know that I'm right fucking here listening to you, right?" he snapped.

"Still shut up," Clara said, clapping her hand across his mouth again. "Here's the thing I've learned from all my time with you. Love can make you into the most selfish bastard alive if you're not careful, and even if you are it can still worm itself in. You fall in love and you get so greedy and anxious, that you starve. And that's what we are together, Malcolm. That's what you and me have always been. Hungry, greedy, and blind because we're dead-set on each other and nothing else."

Clara licked her lips, scraping her teeth along the edges of her mouth in the follow through. "But at least we're honest about it. We're honest and selfish and so we put up with this limbo of a relationship because there's no one else alive who could possibly put up with either one of us. You're the only person who can stand to see me at my most awful moments, and that's the same from me to you as well - but d'you know what?"

"... Am I allowed to answer that?" Malcolm asked, his voice low in his throat and his eyes growing dark with a familiar shadow.

"You just did, so yes," Clara said, grinning. "I don't _feel_ awful when I'm with you. Even with all the lying and dead promises and disappointments, I'm happier with you then I could ever be without. And that's not going to change."

"Would you like it to?"

"Not if I can help it," she said.

Before she had time to blink, Malcolm pulled her flat against him and crushed her lips under his searching, starveling's mouth, giving a kiss that could force a torrent of bitter blood from even the most weathered stone.

 

* * *

 

Yes, it was much easier to see Malcolm now that he and Clara both knew where the other stood: on the bent and broken back of healthy choices and good intentions, prepared to eat their hearts alive not to suffer, but to savor the taste of such awful, awe-owed, almighty love growing within. It was so much easier to keep on seeing Malcolm in the months that followed now that Clara knew all it took to have him come running back was a single solid tug on his heartstrings, which had been woven into her hands on the day he put a ring on her finger.

It was so much easier to see him in those eighteen months that followed Clara's departure from the house, especially since Malcolm was all too happy to be pulled and led and yanked right along back to her side whenever she wished. And she always got such a thrill out of seeing how fast she could coax him to kneel.

During her more lucid and guilt-laden moments, Clara wondered when her marriage had taken a turn from the mildly worrying to the undeniably alarming. Long before the "separation," surely. As she had said to Malcolm, they were both awful people who somehow became less hideous when paired together. But why did that matter so much? Who on earth did Clara have to fight against to defend her love for Malcolm? _Every person in the world is guilty of loving. I've done nothing wrong here, nothing wrong at all. It's not as if I'm on trial for it._

Clara wasn’t, but Malcolm was.

Three words: The Goolding Inquiry.


	19. Chapter 19

_Excerpt from the interview, 'Mrs Tucker Tells All: Inside the Secret Marriage of the Woman Who Tamed Downing Street's Dark Lord'. Originally written by Missy Saxon. Reprinted with Mrs. Tucker's permission._  
  
Q: How would you describe your relationship with Malcolm? Surely you can imagine why some people might have trouble viewing him as a loving, tender man, especially considering his reputation.

A: In _The Bell Jar_ , the main character turns to her hospital psychologist and asks, “What does a woman see in a woman that she can't see in a man?” The doctor says, “Tenderness,” and that shuts the main character up right quick.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I honestly think tenderness is one of Malcolm’s most prominent qualities—no really, it’s true. He protected that part of himself as fiercely as he did our marriage, because to him they were one in the same. If he kept one part safe, he could keep the other safe as well—which is why I had no problem keeping the secret for so long. It wasn’t always easy, and sometimes it was downright exhausting, but… It was just as much my decision as it was his. It takes two people to make a marriage, not just one barking orders all the time. And Malcolm wasn’t like that at all.

Look, I know what others say about him. I even know a little of what he's said back. I know all about _that_ Malcolm, but it’s just a front. A mask.

Q: Is that how you explain all the things Malcolm’s done while he was employed as Director of Communications? That it was ‘just a mask’?

A: I think what Malcolm did at his job was something he thought he _had_ to do, just like I have to do things I think are personally pointless for my job. It’s part of being in the world, you know—putting up with things we don’t like, or doing things we don’t always agree with because that’s what we’re told. Sometimes the only way we can actually do these things is if we put up a front and assume a role as best we can.

We all have masks, Ms. Saxon. We put them on for all the different parts of our day, depending on where we go, who we talk to, what we have to do. It means we know there are certain parts of ourselves that need hiding or exaggerating depending on whatever situation we’re in. It's no different than a role in a play.

Q: So Malcolm Tucker, Spin Doctor is—to you—just a role that he played? There was nothing about his actions or behavior that translated into your private life together?

A: Nothing at all. It’s quite simple: the Malcolm who worked for the government all those years just wasn’t the same as _my_ Malcolm. I pity that Malcolm. I could never love him. He was an over-worked, over-wrought, proud and bitter man. But the man who came home from work at the end of the day was not the same man who walked out that door every morning. A mask came down in between, and beneath it was the man I married, doing what he had to do—even if it wasn’t always right.

* * *

 

  
Sam placed a fresh cup of tea in front of Clara and took a seat at the table. Clara could see the other woman’s kind smile and careful, observant eyes from the corner of her own, but it was a blur, oddly indistinct.

Such was her usual disposition these days, starting from the trial separation to this new wave of marital woes. Her old friend Dread had settled in for a long stay, sinking his claws into her every buried fear, turning her mind’s shadows against herself. She had been this way for the past three days, ever since Malcolm broke the news.

She knew she couldn’t sit there broken and detached, half focused and only vaguely aware of the world outside her head, and most especially not when she had company present. Forcing herself to make this effort, Clara dropped her eyes from its endless stare to focus on the mug in front of her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice like a croak. Clara wrapped her hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into her fingertips. Malcolm had always complained about her cold touch. _And now here you sit, with no husband on hand to warm you._

 _Now let’s not get too hasty_ , the small, sensible part of Clara’s mind argued back. Malcolm was still her husband, but there was the little thorny matter of their trial separation still being in effect, and now there was a new, unwelcome intrusion in the form of a lord justice and a public outcry.

As if able to sense the tone of Clara’s thoughts, Sam cleared her throat and leaned forward. “The Inquiry will start tomorrow morning,” she said. “It’s not open to the public, but there should be press people there. Malcolm said I didn’t have to go unless I wanted to, of course.”

“That was nice of him,” Clara said, trying for a smile and managing only to make her face hurt and her eye twitch. “Probably doesn’t want you to go out of your way for him anymore. I know he’s always asked a lot from you.”

“It was all part of the job,” Sam said with a shrug, keeping her voice low and her eyes focused on Clara’s face with a look of clear concern. “I told Malcolm I would be there every day that he is, and I know he wouldn’t mind having you there, but I understand why you wouldn’t think it right to appear.”

“It’s just a little hard to break the habit. After all these years of lying low and playing at deep cover,” Clara laughed, trying for another smile. She knew her voice sounded as if it were coming out of someone else’s mouth, someone far away and with oceans and miles and entire lifetimes separating her body from that voice.

Sam continued. “It’s not my place to speak about your private life, but I just wanted you to know that even I can see how different he is thanks to you. With you and without you.”

“We were getting better,” Clara said, her voice wavering. She took a sip of her tea and squared her shoulders. _Pull yourself together. Be stronger than you are—for Sam’s sake, at the very least._ _Clara couldn’t always be strong for herself, but for others she could move mountains and kill, if need be._

“Malcolm did mention you two were spending more time together,” Sam said.

Keeping her eyes carefully focused on Sam’s face, Clara imitated her smile as best she could. She felt like a bomb trapped inside a woman’s skin, ready to detonate at the slightest shake or merest touch. _And yet here she sits, still comforting me, still talking to me._ Clara wasn’t exactly sure why Sam bothered, but she was grateful all the same.

 _Maybe once this is all cleared up she and I can start to be proper friends._ That would be nice. Clara didn’t have many friends these days. Apart from Coal Hill acquaintances, Clara wasn’t exactly sure she had _any_ friends left at all. There were the Ponds in New York—but that was an ocean and a country away, and Clara had yet to fully bridge the gap with an olive branch.

 _There_ was also Sarah Jane, but she had always felt more like an almost mother than a friend to Clara. _And besides, she’s John’s aunt. Can’t drop by to have a chat with her without the risk of it getting around to John somehow._ And while Malcolm counted as a friend, he was also pulling double-shifts as Clara’s husband. That seemed to somehow cancel it all out.

 _It_ took her trial separation from Malcolm for Clara to finally realize just how isolated she had become because of her marriage. _I was so caught up in protecting our little world, that I shut myself off from everything else._ Clara's love had made her blind, so blind. She had poured so much of her heart into the world of her marriage with a sort of single-target focus that was both commendable and frighteningly monomaniacal. Malcolm was just as guilty of course, and even now, looking at all the ruins of what they had been, Clara still couldn’t find the fault in this behavior.

“Clara? Are you all right?” Sam took hold of the other woman’s hand, stroking it gently. It was the first time someone had touched Clara in days, ever since Malcolm had come to deliver the sorry news.

“ _We may have to put Monday’s lunch on hold, sweetheart.”_

“ _And why’s that?”_

“ _I have been cordially and ever so fucking forcefully commanded to present myself before a panel of esteemed tossers more politely known as the Goodling Inquiry.”_

“ _For what reason?”_

“ _To defend myself, I expect.”_

“ _Malcolm, that’s—”_

“ _A joke? That does seem like the only reasonable fucking explanation for it, you know. But it’ll still take up some time over the next few days, so I thought you should know, Clara. That’s all.”_

Malcolm stayed over that night. Even with the shadow of the Inquiry hanging over their heads, Clara was still glad to have Malcolm near. She was glad to touch him, to feel him, to act as if nothing had gone wrong at all, even if this meant she was locking herself into a hopeless dream.

 _Just for tonight,_ Clara thought. _Just this one night, let me pretend everything is fine. Just one night, please._

That whole night, just like all the years before it all came apart, Malcolm’s presence felt like a pair of warm, gentle hands cradling the cracked mess that was her heart. She knew that he held her so tightly and whispered to her so gently for her sake as much as his heart’s own. They were both selfish little monsters after all. Love could do that to a person, especially two people who had no desire to compromise for the sake of happiness.

 _It’ll be fine, as long as we end up together,_ Clara thought that night, thought and wanted to say, but she didn’t quite have the courage. Not yet. _I’ll be fine with whatever happens and whatever we do, as long as he and I are together in the end._

As if sensing her thoughts, Malcolm drew Clara into his arms and ran his fingers through her hair. She had smiled at this, a reflexive and easy expression, shutting her eyes at once and relaxing under his touch.

Clara wasn’t sure if Malcolm slept that night. He was already on his feet as the alarm screamed its first round of fury from its place the nightstand. She knew that his burst of energy was something of a farce, that it was just a way for him to seem stronger than he felt.

As if to prove her point, when he left that morning, Malcolm looked as weary and weathered as ever--and yet when he kissed her goodbye, it was with such a force that it nearly knocked Clara flat. His every touch was like a fire alive at the end of his fingers and tongue and mouth. Clara's lips felt bruised by the time Malcolm broke off, unable to hide her wide-eyed look of astonishment.

Perhaps there was strength in the old man yet. How sweet that Malcolm seemed to save it all for her.

Clara tried to take courage from this memory as she sat hand in hand with Sam. Dear Sam had a strength all of her own, one that Clara had admired for years and never quite found a way to praise out loud. That Sam would offer her support unasked was just another example of the woman’s unfailing kindness, as well as her deceptively enviable strength. _It’s the sort of strength people always mistake for weakness_ , Clara thought. It was just the sort of strength that she needed right now, especially with the plan she had in mind. Yes, Clara would need all the cunning and show of kindness she could get in order to help Malcolm--and use the papers’ own cruelty against them.

Arrogance combined with a false sense of self-importance was a marvelous mixture in any person. They were always so easy to fool. But that was mostly out of her hands now. The plan had already been put into motion, and now all Clara could do was ride the momentum through to the break.

* * *

 

Missy Saxon looked like a needle. She was long, thin, and quite sharp at all ends—elbows, nose, knees, fingers—with an edge that carried down further inside. After a few seconds of conversation, it was clear that her mind was also diamond-edged and unforgivably quick, honed to a purpose. The few emails they had exchanged came loaded with the impression that Ms Saxon had the distinct ability to get under the skin, as if she had a calling for depriving others of their own vitality.

Clara mentioned this in as polite a way as she could manage to word a mild insult. “Thanks for meeting with me, Ms Saxon. I actually thought you might be a bit keen for a face to face conversation, considering your choice in career.”

“Yes, well my _vampire hack_ kindred and I do quite enjoy a tete-a-tete,” Missy said. Her painted red lips stretched into a smile that didn’t quite show her teeth. “Oh don’t look so stunned. I’m intimately familiar with the term. Malcolm started using that name after he met me, you know. It was the lipstick, I think. That was when we both worked at the Herald, back in the 80’s.” Missy studied Clara with a swift gaze, her eyes ticking up and down. “Were you even born then, dear?”

“Yes, I was,” Clara said, keeping her smile pinned in place.

Missy looked Clara over with the sort of interest that she knew all too well.

_She’s looking for another place to strike a nerve._

Clara kept her hands folded flat on the table, though she wanted nothing more than to stand up, lift the wicker chair over her head, and use it beat this sorry woman half to death. She was well familiar with this particularly ugly trait of human nature before Malcolm and his bias against the press ever came into her life. She had mostly Linda to thank for that, but watching first hand as Malcolm was forced to keep the company of journalists, after having been one himself, only made Clara’s belief solidify into the cold, seamless shell of a fact.

 _Some people are nothing but vultures, circling for carrion._ They only wanted to know more about a person’s private, inner world so that they might leave behind little nagging seeds of ruinous, devouring doubt. Those who were targeted by these conniving, clever sorts would later bear self-poisoning fruits, destroyed from within by the work of someone else.

Missy cleared her throat with a gentle _hem,_ drawing Clara from her dark thoughts _._ “I wonder… Has Malcolm ever mentioned me to you?” she asked.

“No,” Clara said at once. Her answer came out much too fast, but the carelessness of the reply worked in her favor. Malcolm really had never mentioned Missy before, and though she had only just met the woman Clara could easily see why. She was everything Malcolm would hate about a journalist condensed into bones and skin, a living, breathing embodiment of all that he loathed and had once uncomfortably known. It didn’t help that Missy had a severe personality, cold and cross and dangerous, the kind that set Clara’s every nerve on edge.

Missy bounced back quickly from Clara’s reply, but Clara had seen the way Missy’s eyelashes had fluttered ever so slightly over her gaze. And she had also seen the older woman sit up straighter in the wicker chair, her long fingers flexing on the armrests as if she were hoping to dig out a good chunk.

“Well I imagine he wouldn’t want to divulge _too_ much of himself to you,” she said. “After all, it does seem like your was marriage made in a time of great personal _crisis_ ,” she added, turning her head to peer at Clara sideways like some pale, blue eyed bird of prey.

Clara didn’t ask Missy to elaborate on that thought. She didn’t want to give the other woman the satisfaction of knowing that her words had taken up any space inside Clara’s mind at all. _When she looks at me and Malcolm, all she sees is the surface. Older man, younger woman, with absolutely nothing between us besides our clothes._

Still, for a woman whose every act came equipped with a harsh, sudden prick, Clara thought that Missy was rather blind in this particular instance. It was easy enough to guess why. It wasn’t jealousy, that much was clear. Missy saw nothing in Clara to covet, except perhaps her close tie to Malcolm. Nor was it a something so trite as scorned love, considering how eagerly she had jumped at the offer Clara made when she rang her up for this little cafe chat. The only possible answer left was that Missy was just the kind of cruel person who sank her claws into a heart and kept hold of it for years. A collector of secrets and a keeper of lives.

Was it any wonder that she had excelled as a photojournalist? Was it any wonder at all that her photographs were lauded as being so raw they were almost invasive? And was it any wonder that she would make it a spare-time sport in training this lens onto Clara and Malcolm?

Thanks to a small bit of research, Clara knew that Missy had worked with Malcolm at the Glasgow Herald around the same time she was sputtering out her first word (which was “Won’t,” for the record, and that defiance set the tone of Clara’s life from henceforth). Often times Missy provided the photo evidence to accompany an article of Malcolm’s, and Clara had seen for herself how both their names were squished together in bold, faded black print under aged pictures of flustered looking politicians or slack-jawed, vacant-stared assistants.

Even just seeing their names side by side had broken something inside her, tugging on every raw battered nerve until she became this warped, bitter thing. She wasn’t jealous, no. Clara knew that Malcolm had a life before it opened up to welcome her. What Clara felt was something much more close to possessive, almost viciously protective, and although Malcolm had never known the venom that came equipped with his wife’s otherwise loving hold on him, Clara saw no reason to spare Missy from its sting.

There was the photo after all, the one taken after Clara and Malcolm had accidentally met over lunch--the one Malcolm had been trying for years to get back. Missy couldn’t print it, of course. Not with Clara so readily on display front and center, but the mere fact that she _had_ such a picture at all had been a clear cause of distress in Malcolm—which was precisely what Missy wanted. Clara had seen the messages passed back and forth between them from one of Malcolm’s disposable mobiles, the kind he quite literally chucked in a bin at the end of a month, or else wrapped up in plastic and most thoughtlessly let drop into the Thames. He had left it behind in Clara’s flat the night after he broke the news about the Inquiry, no doubt forgetting it in light of more pressing legal matters that nagged at his brain.

As these thoughts swirled around inside of Clara’s head, she sat frozen in rigid silence, waiting for Missy to speak. Silence was not a welcome presence in Missy’s life; she fidgeted ever so slightly as Clara sat there staring at her, her eyes pointed straight at her face, watching carefully as the other woman’s pale, unnaturally blue eyes shifted back and forth across Clara’s masked expression. She was looking for a crack, searching eagerly for a seam or any way in to the thoughts beneath.

“Is there something wrong, Mrs Tucker?” Missy asked.

“Oh no, not really. I was just thinking."

“What of?”

Clara took a long drink of her cooled coffee, which was as dark black as her mood and much like the way Malcolm always took his on a bad day. “I was thinking about how happy I am that you finally got in touch with me.”

“Are you really?” One of Missy’s carefully penciled eyebrows rose in a slow arch, like a serpent rearing in the grass.

Clara nodded and, after reminding herself that it would be no shame to do it, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t _wanted_ to do it for weeks and weeks on end now, she dropped her eyes from Missy’s face and focused on the crisp, bleached white coffee table. The overcast day and heavily filtered sunlight made it seem even brighter and more painful to look at for uninterrupted stretches of time. That suited Clara’s purpose just fine. Within seconds her eyes clouded over with tears, and she gave one short, embarrassed sniff just before she really started to cry.

“Oh, Mrs Tucker,” Missy crooned, leaning forward in her chair and passing Clara the thick red cloth that passed for a napkin. “Here you are, love. Dry up, there you go.”

“Thank you,” Clara sniffed, smiling bravely through her crocodile’s tears. “I really appreciate it, Ms—Ms Saxon.” She pressed the napkin to her cheeks and dabbed at them, back and forth, keeping her eyes pinned to the corners of Missy’s face. She was smiling just as Clara hoped she would, the way a spider smiled when its dinner fluttered too close to its web, unaware of its impending role in the meal.

_That’s right. Just keep smiling and thinking I’m a sad, silly girl, nothing more than a mouse. You sit back and smile and just watch what this little sorry mouse can do._

“Of course you do, darling, of course you do,” Missy said. “I _do_ hope you haven’t taken any real offense to what I’ve said. Have you? That was just a bit of fun, you know. I couldn’t help myself, really.” Missy reached out with her other hand and gave Clara’s hand a would-be friendly pat. Her touch was clammy, not quite cold. It filled Clara with a violence that made her stomach heave.

 _God, I hate this woman._ And the best part was she didn’t even know about it. She was far too busy regarding Clara as a victim, the weak and simpering little trophy wife collected by a greater man, to imagine that she had any kind of ruthless cunning of her own.

_Her loss, my gain._

When she lowered the damp cloth to her lap and closed it in a fist, Clara had already sealed herself off from the well of grief that inspired this display in the first place. Enough was enough. Missy didn’t need to see any more. “I didn’t ask you here today to hear you talk about my husband,” she said, composing herself with a forced effort. She squared her shoulders, lifted her eyes just as a tear clung to the edges of a single, sodden lash, and looked Missy dead in the face again. “I came here to ask you for a favor.”

“A _favor_?” Missy repeated, stunned. Clara didn’t give her time to recover. The bait was out and she was already biting.

 _Careful now. Here’s where the plan gets tricky._ “Yes. It’s—it’s about… about Malcolm,” Clara said, stumbling over his name. “I’m sure you know about the Inquiry. It’s been all over the papers and in the news for days now.”

Missy nodded fast. “Yes, a good friend of mine wrote a piece about the wayward nature of modern politics, as a matter of fact—oh, but you don’t want to hear about _that_ either, do you?”

“It’s… it’s fine, Ms Saxon.”

Missy’s lips pressed down as she smiled again, wider than before and remarkably Cheshire-like. “Bless you, aren’t you a dear? Letting me go on like this while you’re in such a state. No wonder Malcolm was so protective of you. You should have _seen_ some of the things he said when I got wind of you.”

Clara’s hands started to shake. _Don’t slip up. Don’t give in. That’s what she wants, that’s what she’s hoping for. Don’t you dare play into her hand._ The spell of Clara’s anger broke like a fever, leaving her cold and gutted, but she came out even more determined than before.

“How can I help you, Mrs Tucker?” Missy asked, her voice hushed.

Clara made sure to smile with all watery braveness and a would-be stiff upper lip as she locked eyes with Missy again. She’d fallen right into the hole Clara had dug. Now all Clara had to do was starting piling on the dirt. “I was hoping you might be interested in hearing my story. About Malcolm and… and our marriage.”

“In exchange for what?” Missy asked. Her eyes were glistening bright and keen. Eager, cunning, and clueless.

“For putting the word out about us, however you can,” Clara said. “You could even use that photo you snapped of us. You need my permission to post it, don’t you? Well there you go, you’ve got it.”

Missy laughed. It was a sweet, harmonious sound, so out of tune with the rest of her. “And what would I get out of all this?” she asked.

Clara secretly rejoiced. She had been practicing the perfect answer to this question, in the hopes that it would be asked. She almost wanted to thank Missy, but she knew that wolves were not in the habit of thanking a lamb for being so predictably easy to devour. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Ms Saxon. You’re one of the most brilliant minds in journalism today—well, that’s what I think. Why else would Malcolm have been so eager to keep you at a distance?”

“Why indeed,” Missy laughed. “But flattery is still not an answer. I’m waiting.”

Clara didn’t keep her waiting long. “You’d be the one to break the story about a side to Malcolm Tucker that no one else knows—not even you, Ms Saxon. And while I know very little about how all this inside scoop and story-breaking works, I imagine that any word about him would come highly prized, especially now.”

“That’s all very fine and well for _me_ , Mrs Tucker,” Missy said, curling her fingers so that they rested beneath her chin. “But this would paint an awfully large target on your dear husband’s back, yes?”

“It’s not a target,” Clara said, arguing with as much force as she could put into a hushed husk of a voice. “It’s a spotlight.”

“Is that so?”

Clara finished her coffee, the bitter acid sliding down her throat and turning her stomach into a sludge. The sun burst through the weaker cracks in the clouds and shone down on where the two women sat, making Missy’s eyes narrow as a beam of light cut across her face. The sun was at Clara’s back, warming her.

“Can’t give everything away in one go, now can I?” she said, smiling the way she thought a sheepish, naive woman ought to smile. Docile and meek, sweet and simple. “I’ll have to save some of that for the interview.”

Clara and Missy parted ways with a handshake and a plan to meet again over dinner in Clara’s flat. Once again, Clara was in tears as she thanked Missy for her time and patience, which earned her a quick, strong-armed hug.

“You just hang in there, Mrs Tucker--oh, may I call you Clara? Please? And you can call me Missy, I’d much prefer it if we were on friendlier terms.”

Clara smiled again, all bashful kindness and shyness, as she waved goodbye. The look didn’t leave her face until she was two blocks away, quite enough distance for the mask to crack and for Clara’s real, frozen expression to assume its rightful place.

 

* * *

 

There was a violence and anger in Clara that was both incurable and undeniable. Nothing seemed to work to curb this habit, so Clara had decided to keep it tightly hidden and buried, even at the occasional expense of her health. Shaking hands, a pounding heart, sore jaws made from clenched teeth, and a stomach that broiled like it was full of acid weren’t exactly _enjoyable_ alternatives to letting her temper show, but they were alternatives all the same. Much better that she keep it to herself than let it show.

For years Clara had been told how _unladylike_ it was to have a temper such as hers. “Pretty girls shouldn’t be so cross.” “Smile more – you look much nicer when you smile.” “No one likes a girl who’s angry all the time.”

“Pretty girls can be whatever the hell they want to be,” she snapped back, but only inside her head. Sadly that’s how all these on point retorts went. They were all thought up long after when they could be useful.

All these things Clara wished to say and couldn’t built up over the years, born from burying her anger until it festered into a kind of emotional ulcer. These unsaid words burned her from within, charring her throat and tongue until it became bitter ash.

“I don’t want to look nicer. I want to look like how I feel,” Clara also thought as she glared and scowled twice as hard at the person – it was usually a man, be honest – who leaned into her face and demanded a change in her expression.

Clara's favorite line, and the one she wished she said more often, was simple and to the point: “I don’t care who likes me.” Because she didn’t care. The company of others who could not understand the bitter and brutal part of her heart was not company she cared to keep.

That’s why being with Malcolm was so nice. Clara could live vicariously through his own viciousness, however much she disliked that he had to be so angry.

Thankfully, as far as Clara's plan was concerned, Malcolm wasn’t the only person who might welcome her fury. There was one other man Clara trusted to take up this charge, and he also had the added benefit of not being in any current, public legal trouble. So what if they hadn’t spoken much these past few years? And so what if he was Malcolm’s friend first – that didn’t mean Clara couldn’t ask for a favour when she needed it, right?

She wasn’t desperate, she was determined. Hell hath no fury and all that. There was a remarkable difference between a person terrified to lose what little they had left, and a person with no room in her heart for anything like fear. Everything Clara loved was already lost. This was nothing more than her attempt to get it back, or maybe even get revenge.

Yes, there was a difference between desperation and determination, even if it wasn’t immediately plain to a pair of outside eyes. And she would do this alone, without Malcolm.

Clara would cross that uncomfortable, rickety bridge when she came to it. Sometimes she thought about ringing him up, but she always stopped herself at the last second. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t put that weight on his shoulders, and some vicious part of her wanted to make this a nice surprise.

 _Won’t he be happy to see his sweet little wife feeding the hacks their own poisoned tripe back to them?_ Clara thought as she stared in the bathroom mirror, putting her make-up on for the day. Tar dark eyeliner, faint tinge of rouge like a scrape, and the merest gloss on her lips as if she had swallowed tears. Clara's reflected face was as still as a mask.

Even if she didn’t have the courage to confide in him about the plan, Clara was sure that Malcolm would no doubt learn of it in time. It was a simple fact, one she accepted and perhaps relied on a bit too much in the absence of being brave. The Inquiry had trapped Malcolm’s attention, but he would know about her interview soon enough. That _did_ scare her, even if only a tiny bit.

Would he understand why she did it? Would he take one look at what was sure to be a hideously dramatic, overblown exposé into the hidden life they had worked so hard to protect, and know its true purpose? He had to, he must. _He wrote a bloody book on spin and how to talk to the press,_ Clara reasoned more than once during the early stages of the plan. There was no way he would let her down now. _Not in this. Not now. Please_.

But it didn’t hurt to have a safety net. Every good con needs a safety net. And what better ace than Malcolm’s former second in command himself?

 

* * *

 

Shortly after meeting with Missy Saxon, Clara arranged to meet with Jamie for a quick lunch. He looked a bit older than the last time she had seen him, with just a few more lines around his bright blue eyes and charming mouth. His eyes brightened when Clara approached the table, and his grip was warm and sudden, closing around Clara's fingers like a strong glove.

That sweet warmth all faded once they sat down, of course. “Christ it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?" he said. "You look right fucking miserable. Is that the company or the marriage troubles?”

“The company, if he keeps this up,” Clara said, smiling.

Jamie laughed. When he spoke again, the gleeful little gleam in his eyes had faded into a dull glow. “How’s life without the old man treatin’ you, eh?” he asked, studying her.

“Fine, except for the small spot of legal trouble.”

“Heard about that,” Jamie said, nodding once, which tapered into a casual shrug. “Not exactly a great fucking surprise, was it?”

“It was to me,” Clara said, deciding once more to forgive Jamie for his indifference. She could sense the effort to his every casual shrug and feigned, disinterested word. It was as much a mask as her broken waif performance for Missy. “Which is why I’m looking for a bit of help.”

“And you called me?”

“I have an idea, but I can’t do it alone. Not without some help.”

Clara’s chest tightened, closing off the air she ached to breathe. It was as if her sides all the way from her ribs down to her waist were wound up like a clenched fist. “I know you and Malcolm had your differences, but that shouldn’t stop you from lending a hand to me when I ask you.”

“What’s got you thinking that?” he wondered.

“Because I am mad enough to believe that there is still one small, miserable little scrap of decency buried so far down inside you, no matter what anyone else says,” Clara said, lowering her eyes to his mouth, his throat, and to the way both clenched and shifted as she spoke. “Isn’t that why you left five years ago? To get out before it all pulled you down too far?”

“Is that how Malc tells it?”

Clara shook her head. “Malcolm didn’t like to talk about you leaving. Sort of a sore subject.”

Silence settled in a neat layer over the table.

“So – what are you after then?”

Clara dropped her eyes to the table again, watching the way the cloth rippled in the slow, cold breeze. The sun was out, shining weakly down through a thin veil of clouds, but it was enough to warm her. “What do you know about a woman named Missy Saxon?” she asked.

By the time Clara looked up again, Jamie’s laughter had faded into a cruel grin. “ _Her?_ ” he demanded, his face twisted. “That’s a right mad cunt and a dozy cow,” he added, ignoring her little frown. “And not much of a looker to boot. Face like a hatchet. Sharp, you know. With sudden damaging edges.”

“Anything else?” Clara prompted.

“Nothing but gossip, and who gives a toss about that? Had it bad for old Malc, if I recall. But he never cared much for her. Strictly professional, you know. Shook her off whenever he could, but that didn’t work much. The move down to London is what broke her stranglehold. Why d’you want to know about her?”

It was Clara's turn to show a cruel smile this time. The penny dropped at once.

“Oh, I know that look,” he said, his voice low and his lips twitching again. “Borrowed straight off the face of the old man. Right, who are we killing today, then?”

“Can you do the wife of an old, dear friend a favor and help her make someone’s life miserable?”

“Just as long as you can answer two simple questions.” Jamie held up one finger. “One – how? And two –” up went the other finger, “Why?”

So she told him. She told him how it was all set to work, and she told him why it had to, glossing a bit over the soppier romantic bits she didn’t think he cared to know. As Clara spoke, she watched a light burn in Jamie's eyes and react to the withered husks of her heart, igniting a hope in her that had all but exhausted itself in its solo effort to stay alive.

“I’m in, yeah, no doubt about that,” Jamie said once she finished. He was grinning at Clara still, looking her over with a puzzled interest. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“Had what in me?” she asked, wary.

“A bitter, sour bastard of a lump somewhere in your heart,” he said. “Malcolm, see, he’s got the sour bastard part all set, yeah? But he only knows the two sides. How to be cruel, and how to be kind. But you’re the balance, right? You can be both.” Jamie clapped his hands together to further illustrate the point. “S’why you and Malc worked together for so long, I expect.”

“That’s… nice of you to say, Jamie. But it might have been nicer to know this years ago.”

“Better late than fucking never, yeah,” he offered. And Clara had to agree, but under one condition.

“Patch things up with Malcolm once this is all said and done. Please? For me? He could use a friend, somehow to help look after him, especially if it all… Well, never mind that. Wouldn’t want to jinx it.” Clara stood up and made a show of adjusting her coat and pulling her hair free from the collar. “It was nice seeing you again.” She held her hand out for Jamie to shake, but then she surprised him by stepping forward.

“Would you leave him?” Jamie asked, still holding onto her hand, peering down into her warm brown eyes with a look that was equal parts cunning and curious. “If it all does go right into the shitter, are you actually planning on leaving him?”

Clara pulled back. It was her turn to shrug now, casual, detached. “If it all works out, I won’t have to,” she said. “I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.”

She could feel Jamie’s eyes on her back as she turned to go. The warm weight of his stare was like a hand pressed to her skin, steadying Clara and keeping her straight.

* * *

 

_Excerpt from the interview, 'Mrs Tucker Tells All: Inside the Secret Marriage of the Woman Who Tamed Downing Street's Dark Lord'.  Written by Missy Saxon. Reprinted with Mrs. Tucker's permission._

 

Q: How would you describe your marriage with Malcolm? Did he ever fail to live up to any hopes you might have had going in?

A: I know nothing is perfect, but when he and I were together it was as close to that feeling as any two people could be. We were safe together. Both of us found a home in each other, and so it made sense to hold on to that for as long as we could, no matter what problems tried to get in the way.

Q: You mean his work at Downing Street?

A: That was a larger part of our issues, yes. I knew about Malcolm's job at Number Ten, but that's not what mattered to me. I'm not here to talk about that. That's the Malcolm everyone knows about. I'm here to talk about the Malcolm only _I_ know. Because that man... That man who makes me feel so loved and safe, is all that matters to me. Sharing my life with a man like him matters more than any silly idea on what marriage and husbands _should_ be.

Q: Would you consider yourself a romantic, Mrs Tucker?

A: I don't think so, no. I'm the least romantic person I know. I don't think love is a cure for everything, and I don't think it can heal or help everything. Love is nothing more than the total sum of the people involved, and sometimes that means it can be a right horror. Love isn’t just about when things are easy and sweet. It's about the darker, awful things that come along too. It's about struggling because you know the end is worth it, even if the troubles never leave. Love is a battle against itself, and I consider myself damned lucky to have found a man who's worth such a fight.

 

* * *

 

Clara's plan to pull the wool over Missy Saxon's eyes was as much her own invention as it was inspired by Malcolm's own clever machinations. Have to give credit where credit was due, of course.

Some of Malcolm's work documents had gotten mixed into Clara's things when she had moved out. That's how Clara had come across one particularly interesting stack on how to leak stories and talk to journalists. Reading this, coupled with her righteous fury about Missy's entire existence on the fringe of her life, made the plan all click together in Clara's head. _Throw enough shadow of a doubt on her so others can point the finger in blame, then sit back and wait for them to pull Malcolm out of the fire._

She couldn't outright _accuse_ Missy of planting Tickel's information on Malcolm, but she damn well could make sure others came to that conclusion. Giving Ms Saxon an interview was just a way to play into her hand, to blind her to the threat Clara posed and the damage she planned to inflict. Give the woman all the information she wanted about this secret, hidden Malcolm and wait for her to take it public – which is when Clara and Jamie would launch their counterattack.

Jamie would ring up a few journalists he hadn't driven off in a hurry and leave a few messages, some less threatening than others, calling their attention to Missy’s scoop. He might also mention how strange it was for Saxon to have this juicy bit of information considering she had a history of hounding the Tuckers for personal information, starting with Malcolm back in his _Herald_ days. And he may also close the call off with a few words of judgement about how repulsive it was to take advantage of a man's wife when she was going through a truly trying time.

Clara had never enjoyed it much before, but she had to admit the meek, mousy housewife mask did have some uses.

_If I'm going to be a monster for something, I'd rather it be for love._

 

* * *

 

The last day of the Inquiry dawned sharp and harsh, full of silence. Malcolm hadn't said a word to Clara since he spent the night in her flat, but this silence was sure to break whether she was ready for it or not.

Clara's interview would be published at the end of the week. Missy promised to send Clara a personal copy, and she even hinted that with the Inquiry coming to a close she may be in touch for a few follow up questions on how Clara felt about the sentence.

“You have my number if you need to talk about anything – off the record, of course. Keep your chin up, dear. Things will go exactly as they're meant to. You'll see.”

“I will, yes. Goodbye, Missy. Thank you.”

Clara didn't speak to another person again until she saw Malcolm chased by the press on TV. They hounded him for blocks, shrieking and shouting in a mad, deafening roar as their lenses devoured his most pitiful moment. Clara sat rigid on her sofa, watching it all unfold. There were tears blinding her eyes until all she saw were shadows and ghosts darting about on the screen. Her poor haunted, hollow man. What Clara wouldn't give to protect him from this, to be there by his side while the vultures swarmed around him, ready to pull him apart.

“I want to say something,” Malcolm said to the cameras.

Clara saw the light leave his eyes. That small, hopeful glimmer she so loved and fought to keep safe for years sputtered, gutted, and died. She felt her heart twist, tightening along with her hands that were sitting frozen on her lap.

The press waited for Malcolm to speak. Clara also waited to hear what he would say, but she could tell by the dead eyes and the glazed stare that Malcolm was as far gone as she had been these past few days. There was nothing to be said. There was nothing more to do. It was finished, all of it. All he had to do know was walk away and be silent.

“It doesn't matter,” Malcolm said, his words broken and hollow. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clara was on her feet and moving towards her phone. She scrolled through the contacts until she got to Jamie's name. He answered on the second ring.

“Do it, Jamie. Put in the calls. Please.”

“Consider it done,” Jamie said. He hung up without another word.

Clara closed her eyes, counted back from ten, and let out a long, rattling breath. There was nothing more to be said. There was nothing more she could do. It was finished, all of it. All she had to do now was wait and be silent.

The path to the future was treacherous, as was love. But love was the one thing in the world that was worth suffering all the horrors and hells it made. Being with Malcolm helped Clara realize that, and it was high time he remembered that for himself. And who better to show it to him than Clara, his dear friend, devoted wife, and newly made partner in crime?


	20. Chapter 20

_Two months later_

The boarding call for Clara's flight to Paris blared out from the rafters, distracting her from the newspaper in her lap. The article wasn't too engrossing, much less worthy of her attention. It was just another reprint of her interview with Missy, with an added codicil. _“This interview was given before Ms Saxon's questionable interest in the Tuckers was revealed. It has been reprinted here with full permission from Mrs Tucker herself.”_

Clara had been contacted for further interviews in the aftermath of both the Inquiry and Missy Saxon resigning in disgrace, but she had declined every single offer, no matter how generous. She did genuinely regret not being able to speak more on the subject, but she did not have the energy after all that had happened. Nor did she have the time. “Perhaps we can have a little talk when I come back from my holiday – if you'll still be interested then.”

Most of the journalists assured Clara that yes, of course they would be interested, and some even took the time out of their simpering to wish her a lovely holiday. Clara had expected them to say as much. Malcolm had told her they would be all too keen to keep her in their sights now that she had put herself in the cross-hairs.  Sharks in the water and all that, and then Clara had to go and dangle her wounded heart over the side.

 _“It was worth it,”_  she told him. _“I'd do it again if I could. Gladly.”_

_“Would you?”_

_“Of course. There's a long, ugly list of things I would do to keep the both of us happy and safe, Malcolm. You should know that by now.”_

_“I should fucking hope I do, sweetheart. I'll come to you first next time I have a life-long career to ruin, shall I? Just tell them they've been getting on my tits a bit, and you'll eat them alive right up for me.”_

Clara smiled as she thought about that conversation. It was the first thing Malcolm said to her after reading the interview for himself, which he took better than Clara could have expected. She didn't at first know how to take his loud laughter, which hit him with such a force that it brought tears to his eyes, but the meaning became clear when he lifted her into his arms, spun her around, and covered her face in warm, eager kisses.

 _"Clever girl,_ " he kept saying in between each kiss. _"My clever, impossible girl."_

Jamie sent Malcolm a copy of the interview. A curious thing, as far as olive branches went, but it got those two daft, sweary Caledonians to start talking to each other again, and anything that mended their friendship was fine by her. They would pick up where they left off. There was no shortage of time for it.

The boarding call resounded again, jarring Clara once more from her thoughts. She tucked the newspapers aside and stood up, lifting her carry-on bag over her shoulder. It was time to leave London behind. Not forever, not permanently. Just long enough to give her a chance at a life away from this smothering havoc. There was a world out there waiting to be seen, and for the first time in her life Clara felt brave enough to risk it.

The interview and its aftermath had broken something in her. No longer did her old pal Dread have a hold on her heart or a direct line to her thoughts. Something else had taken its place, something Clara was hard-pressed to name but gladly welcomed in the place of her anxiety. Courage wasn't the right word for it, nor was it something so trite and simple as strength. The only other word that might have fit was _love_ – but Clara wasn't quite sure about that, either. She would need to think it over to be sure.

A tall man approached Clara as she gathered up her things. He was dressed in a long, black woolen coat and dark red scarf. He was staring at his phone, distracted, but he came to a stop at Clara's side. The man looked down at Clara with a smile that lit up his long, pale face. It brightened his grey-blue eyes at once.

“Are you finally ready for that honeymoon?” she asked. It was a simple inquiry, but the effect it had was as deep and soul-rattling as a wedding vow. Clara's heart drummed in her chest, warming every bit of her skin as if it housed its own private sun. It was happening. Finally, at long last, it was happening. They had waited long enough for it.

Malcolm grinned at Clara like he had that day when she proposed. “I never thought you'd ask,” he said, offering his arm.

Clara took it, pressing her fingers down hard to steady herself as she darted up on her toes and gave her husband a soft, loving kiss.

Arm in arm, the two of them walked to the gate and to the promise of brighter days beyond. Paris, Milan, Rome, Athens. They would take a few weeks to explore as many ruins and delightful tourist traps as they could. It didn't matter where they went just as long as they were together, happy and safe, with no one in the world to stand between them.

Heaven help anyone who tried.

  
_“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.” -- Caitlyn Siehl_

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Strongbad voice* IT'S OVER!
> 
> Thanks very much for sticking with this fic, both in its original incarnation and this repost. I appreciate every comment and message, and I'm sorry that my health got in the way of making it a really full, proper rewrite and re-edit. Which brings me to my next point.
> 
> I'm pretty much done with fanfiction. I want to be a writer--hell, I AM a writer--and one of the hardest decisions I grappled with was keeping my fanfiction online. I decided I feel better not having most of it around anymore. Whether I use EOHA as a basis for a future original work is still up in the air (there's some parts I really like, a lot that I don't), but even if I don't use it, I still don't want it up once I start making a serious effort at being a writer. I've been slowly pulling a lot of fic I've posted over the years, and EOHA won't be any different. I'm not going to take it down any time soon--I figured I wouldn't delete it til this summer at the latest--but it will definitely be pulled, along with most of my other fic on here. AO3 has a handy download feature, so I suggest you all make use of that if you want to hold onto this version of the fic.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, for your attention, for your support. Thank you for reading this. Take care.


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